paging judy blume

I may be divulging way too much information, but here goes.

I noticed two things today. First, my 7 1/2 year old step-daughter is beginning to, um, develop certain things. Second, my certain things are beginning to, um, sag. I'm not sure which upsets me more. Actually, that's a total lie. The fact that I'm, let's say, less perky than before was way more depressing. I mean, the grey hairs I let slide. The ten-year high school reunion I enjoyed, but sagging? Come on, I'm not even 30! I realize this is a natural occurrence, one I can chalk up to having been pregnant, giving birth and nursing my son for 20 months (not to mention everyone's pal gravity), but that doesn't make this any easier. (By the way, if you happen to be a woman who nursed all eight of her kids until they were teenagers and still manages to naturally have the breasts of an 18 year-old, please don't comment on this post. Let me keep my illusions.) It's totally unavoidable now. The facts are staring me in the face (okay, they're actually staring more towards the floor but you get what I mean). I. am. getting. old. How did this happen? When did this happen? I mean, I remember when I, like my step-daughter, first got these things. Not that I was ever really friendly with them or anything (that's right, no bosom buddies here); I was never one to flaunt, but they are a part of me. It's like when I wasn't looking, they went on vacation. Someplace south. Let me tell you this is not cool. And what can I do about it? Absolutely nothing. Oh sure, I can smile and accept my changing body as it is, but I'll tell you right now that's not going to happen. And you know what's probably the most ironic thing about all this? I just got used to everything the way it was. I mean, about 20 years ago I started to go through the normal pubertal (yep, that word's real) changes and I absolutely hated it. (Although I think everyone does.) Now that I'm an adult and feel things are finally under control and where I want them to be, they move. Whose idea was all this, 'cause let me tell you, I'd like to register a complaint. And, AND, the icing on the cake of all this is, who is there to talk to? Yeah, I know I have friends and a husband an all that, but be honest, do they really want to know this about me? Hell, I don't even want to know this about me. What I really need is Judy Blume, that amazing author whose novels helped generations of girls accept everything about growing up. Why hasn't she written anything about growing old? You can't tell me Margaret doesn't have any questions for God on this one. Judy: the one I turned to for answers the last time my body turned on me. If you ever read this (because I'm sure you frequent this blog), please write something for us. Please tell us it's okay to get old. Please tell us this is normal. Please answer the myriad questions we don't even know we have. Please tell us what happened to all those great characters when they looked in the mirror and realized everything had changed. Again. We need you, just like we needed you twenty years ago. Without you, we'll have to resort to writing depressing blogs we hope no one actually reads.