Your cleavage is starting to look like an order of crepes.
Your under-eye wrinkles are taking the shape of the Mississippi Delta. Your glasses seem to magnify these wrinkles, circling them like Highlights Hidden Pictures.
You have glasses now.
You know what Highlights Hidden Pictures are, and they conjure up memories of your cranky old dentist whom you may have bitten on accident one time because he uses that plaque scraper like he’s trying to etch Shakespeare into diamonds.
You are always prepared with a ratty baggie of various pills in case anyone needs one. You’re not entirely sure what all of them are, but you occasionally pop one and hope for the best. (“Is this Zyrtec or Imodium? Bottoms up!”)
You finally have your own Netflix account so you don’t have to explain to your parents why you watched seven episodes of “The L Word” on a Friday night.
Your collection of crumpled up tissues in your purse is rivaled only by your mother’s. There is a 50-50 chance they’ve been used before.
You have a lot of ornamental teapots.
You always carry an umbrella in your purse because you’re sure as hell not getting all wet for no reason. “The Notebook” isn’t romantic, it’s a sinus infection.
You buy the good cheese now.
You have to scroll down way too far to find your birth year when you’re just trying to order cookies and chocolate milk at midnight on a Sunday like a normal human person.
You pay extra money for a seat at concerts because otherwise your back will hurt by the end of it and then you’re walking home like you have a porcupine in your underpants.
You go out dancing and a baby-person sidles up to you and asks in astonishment, “How old are you?!” and you tell them and they say, “Wow, good for you!” And then you shove them off the stage like “American Gladiators,” and by shove them off the stage, I mean chuckle at their youthful foolishness and try to keep up with whatever unpredictable time warp acid trip nutzo beat this DJ is spinning right now. You too will grow old, baby-person. You too will die.
Your hearing is getting worse, so you have to stick your ear in people’s mouths to hear them in crowded bars or just copy facial expressions as best you can, which you’re not really good at, since they’re talking about someone’s cat being put down and you’re grinning like a doofus on molly.
You have a “house sweater” you wash with irregular frequency. This sweater has at least three holes and smells vaguely of cats and Doritos.