Today is a slow posting day for me. Mostly because it’s Friday and I officially shut my brain off sometime around midnight last night … immediately after I was traumatized by the season 4 finale of Dexter. (See? You need to watch this show! John Lithgow's character will make you want to watch old episodes of Third Rock from the Sun to remind yourself of happier, less bloody times.)
The mouse we have in our apartment is still at large. In fact, the second we laid down traps, I think he headed for the hills and slipped out of our apartment the exact same way he came in. The maintenance manager laid down traps that weren’t the traditional, stick-a-piece-of-cheese-on-a-wooden-block-and-watch-what-happens kind of trap. Rather, it’s a little black dome that has a dial on the top with three settings: 1.) Set 2.) Not set and 3.) CAUGHT (written in angry, red letters). Looking at the trap from a safe distance, I tried to determine how exactly this thing works. In my head, it makes sense that the mouse would crawl into the little black dome looking for food and a door would shut behind him, locking him in and allowing us to take him outside to free in the woods. But no … I don’t believe that’s the case at all.
Me: “So what, we’ll know that the mouse is in there when the dial rotates over to the ‘Caught’ setting? How will the dial know the mouse is in there? Is it motion sensitive?”
Clay: *letting out a sigh* “Court, the dial rotates to ‘Caught’ as a spring whips around and snaps the mouse in half.”
Me: “I’m going to go lie down.”
In other news, my darling husband’s birthday is on Monday which makes me the happiest girl alive because not only is it his special day and an excuse to eat cake, Clayton will FINALLY be 25 and can FINALLY stop making fun of me for being an old lady. Him being 7 months younger than me was super cute back when we were dating because I could be all like “Hey! I’m a cougar!” or something equally creepy like that. But now that I’m being shoved into the unfavorable side of my 20s, the jokes about me being a cradle robber are no longer funny and are, in fact, rather depressing. I’m praying that my husband has enough sense to keep his mouth shut when I turn 50 and he’s still enjoying his carefree youth at 49.
And what stinks even more is that right now I’m probably at the hottest I will ever be in my entire life (and that’s not saying much). Right now I have gravity working in my favor. However, as I continue to dig my grave, I’m not going to start looking more distinguished and refined. When women start getting older (which Lord willing won’t start to show until I’m at least in my 50s), we burst into an explosion of wrinkles and gray hairs that we only make worse by trying to dye and tease our hair and wearing too much make-up in an effort to hold on to our youth. While I see a future of orange spray tans, night cream, and a closet-full of velour sweat suits for me, I see Clayton with his salt-and-pepper hair and eye crinkles and can’t help but to think, “Dang! Richard Gere and Anderson Cooper have nothing on you”.
I know I have decades to go before I worry about such nonsense, plus I have some pretty bangin’ family genetics tipping the aging process in my favor. However, I want to totally embrace getting older. There’s nothing I can do to stop it, and no amount of crying is going to turn back the hands of time. When I’m in my 70s, I have every intention of being the old woman power-walking around the neighborhood in my wind-breaker and white visor. I don’t see myself ever attempting to get Botox or plastic surgery. I want to be natural. Just give me a supportive bra and a nice smile, and I think I’ll be okay. And please keep all elastic-waist trousers and sensible shoes away from me, please. I plan on wearing high heels until the day I die.