Stupid Tuesday questions, Oil of Olay edition

It’s happened, y’all. I believe I may have passed a point from which there is no return. A sad occasion to be sure, but one I knew was bound to arrive sooner or later.

I’m pretty sure I’m done getting carded.

There have been other heralds of middle age. The small collection of trousers I accumulated over the span of several Barney’s warehouse sales from back when I could still get to the Barney’s warehouse sale (that is, a decade or more ago) suddenly and without warning stopped fitting a couple of weeks before this past Christmas.  Like, overnight. The Better Half will tell you that I had a not at all dignified reaction to this discovery, and even though we were running late for a dinner party insisted on trying pretty much all of them on to confirm the horrifying reality.  (That I would be reduced to such a pathetic display of vanity and denial is a testament to my underlying psychological stability.)

Thus, after the holidays were over (because I’m not a total idiot) commenced Operation Get Back Into Those Pants, Dammit. Long-neglected boxes of free weights were unpacked. Yoga balls were rededicated to their original abs-related purpose after years of being a preschooler’s toy. Calories were attended to in a way they’d never been attended to before.

And lo, success! Back into (almost all pairs of) those pants I fit again.  Indeed, so happy was I with my success that I set my sights at eliminating all flab from various areas where it had long had strongholds. Staring down the barrel of 40 I may be, but the Middle Years Russell would defy the muffin top phenomenon!

Whoopsie. Then we adopted twin newborns. I kid you not when I say it took mere days of slacking off the rigors of Operation Get Back Into Those Pants, Dammit for all progress to be lost. The ab contours that were just beginning to make themselves visible are now comfortably padded again under a layer of pudge reminiscent of a certain baked-goods spokescharacter.

And to make matters worse, I can buy pinot noir at the local grocery store without having to take more than my debit card out of my wallet. The age-check glance no longer yields a request for ID. While I console myself that I still had to drag out my driver’s license with affected irritation well into my late 30s, the loss still stings.

Ah, well. *gently pats hair and asks it politely to stick around*

So that’s this week’s Question — how has time snuck up on you? What woeful sign of the ticking clock has made itself known? What makes you want to plug up the hourglass and tell the guy who does the “Days of Our Lives” intro to stuff himself?