For the majority of my life, I graciously accepted the fact that I was born an old lady: I make statements that are best suited for conversation in a retirement community; I text whole words instead of abbreviations (that is, if I even text at all); I forget my granny panties in the laundry room where my landlord embarrassingly finds them. These are idiosyncrasies I can handle, but the actual physical process of aging in my 20's is something I did not sign up for.
This time last year, I was busy getting one bad root canal after another on all my back bottom teeth, making it abundantly clear that I'm at least a quarter of the way to needing dentures. This year, I found out I have a calcium deposit on my toe bone that I need to have surgically removed. Now I'm staring at my current collection of cute flats and flip-flops--perfectly suitable for normal young adults--and debating what ugly orthopedic shoes to replace them with. The other day I had to use the cart in Target like a walker. I've seen 80-year-olds move faster than me.
I'm afraid this is my life. The old lady in my soul is manifesting herself in the form of crappy bones and spider veins before I hit age 30, and that really gets my goat.