About a week ago Greg mentioned that he would be turning 27 this year. I nodded along nonchalantly until I realized that also meant I would be turning 27 this year, and then I instantly began to freak out. I'll be honest with you, I do this every year, with every birthday. I am not one who ages well. With every additional year, I stress about how many things I have not done, everything I am behind on, how I am no longer young and cute, etc. As always, Greg shook his head and sighed in slight exasperation and then desperately tried to convince me that it wasn't a big deal, and that I actually wasn't getting "really old" as I so insisted. His implore fell on deaf ears as I rebutted that I was almost thirty and that we instantly needed to have another child. We ended the conversation agreeing to disagree.
Well, I now have proof that I am getting old and decrepit! On Sunday, after church, as I was clad in my pantyhose and missing the traction of my earlier worn shoes, I slipped on our hardwood stairs and fell down hard. (A little side note on my impressive spill - I tumbled down three stairs while holding a cup of liquid in each hand. The glasses, as well as my water and Greg's root beer both remained intact, besides some back splashing on my clothes. I don't know if this unconscious action to sacrifice my body in order to protect what I carried in my arms comes from a maternal instinct or what, but nonetheless I saved our apparently precious drinks.) The point of my mentioning my very loud, forceful and somewhat ridiculous looking fall - it occurred Sunday; today is Tuesday, and I am still hurting! So yes, it's official, I am an old fogie, because only old people fall down and hurt for days afterward.