Gosh how I hate it so when I’m sungit like this!  And, to all you small-minded sexists out there, no it’s not That time of the month.  Yes I’m sure, it’s not that time when there is an abundance of empty aggression that’s just waiting to lock in on a target.  Although, let me admit, a part of me somehow wishes it was just That.  Lest this more aptly be called That time of one’s life…

You know, that time when every little thing that you do (or not) will almost certainly echo in the years you have left?  There now is hardly any throwing of caution to the wind, if at all.  The days of Carefree and Easygoing are gone.  Almost.  Like, there is little to nil luxury for putting things off for tomorrow, something like that.  Career opportunities are harder to come by, unlike when we were younger, and what you pick now more or less lays out the groundwork for what you’re gonna face the next several years or so.  So is picking out new relationships.  You have to be a little more careful or you just might marry it!  Nyahaha.

Things have changed, almost overnight, it seems.  It could be that when you were younger, you seek out the hottest band in town or the happening-est club that’s just opened.  But now, you’re in McDonald’s and you ask for the piped-in music to be turned down because you can’t hear your friend’s work-related kwento.  Or, you find yourself flirting with the neighborhood cutie (oh but naturally!) in the same way you’d always done it, but all of a sudden your friends are telling you you’re not acting your age anymore.  Just because I turned 33, my flirting styles are suddenly that manifest??  Is flirting (and, ya, getting away with it) a privilege of youth? 

When I was in my twenties, I used to dream of having a child.  I wanted one, and I was convinced to the tips of my split ends that I can raise it all on my own.  But as I grew older, and more especially this year, a questionable ultrasound comes with paramount implications as the current global recession.

One morning this year, I woke up to realize I no longer feel “Sexy, without a doubt” anymore.  I have to look really closely, really psych myself up, or worse, reeeaally work hard for it first.  Hassle, ha.

You know you’re knocking on geriatrics’ door when your internet usage jumps off the charts.  Well, it’s one thing that you’ve cut down on actual social contact with physical, hot-blooded beings… but cutting it down for intimate, hot dates with your PC (sorry, loyal) is quite another.  I, for one, have noticed how smitten I’ve become with Facebook, for it, among many other wonderful (and wonderfully deceptive) qualities, provides the playground for my exhibitionistic tendencies.  We all indulge our respective need for self-promotion while channeling the inner chismosos and chismosas in us all.  Also, it seems that I secretly believe I can Twitter my way to “normalcy” – you know, the midpoint between ‘manic’ and ‘depressive’?  It’s the cheapest therapy there is, eh.  Imagine, you get to mouth off as much as you want without needing to fear if you are being vulgar or offensive?  The internet is the free space for all thoughts, no matter how deluded, not to mention it is too vast and too fast-paced to even think anybody is paying that much attention, really.  So I can be the worst whorish exhibitionist I can manage, and yet stay anonymous in a sense.

Now, I have to watch what I say, where I say it, and when.  “Dressing the part” has become a consideration, too, when not so long ago I’d just put on what feels good against my skin.  All conceit aside, anything hugged me near-perfectly.  But now, I catch myself resenting ‘dem love handles that seemed to have appeared from nowhere; I am self-conscious on occasions I’d normally feel right at home.  Lately, I’ve been enjoying the company of guys who did not grow up with the same liking for Electric Company nor with at least the same familiarity with L.A. Law.  I used to think it cool to find these young-ish guys swooning at my feet, bragging to their friends about getting together with a hot “lady”, and falling all over themselves just to be the lucky one who gets picked for the evening.  But gasp!  Now I find myself having to endure a silent insecurity that, nope there’s no stopping it, my eye bags are giving me away.