Now looking for wrinkles and liver spots

Let’s get the main fact out there in front: I turn 30 in a couple of months. My best friend faced this important milestone with slightly more dread than she felt when she ran out of alcohol and went to the liquor store only to realize that she had to parallel park in a stick shift to get to said alcohol, but that this time I was nowhere near close enough for her to call me and make me come do it for her. When one of my sisters turned 30, I called and left her a compassionate message on her answering machine something along the lines of “ha-ha-ha-ha-ha you’re turning 30 and staying home with your gajillion kids and I’m only turning 20 and I’m going out drinking and dancing and partying with young good looking men all night ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” The next year when my other sister turned 30, I had been 21 for about two weeks. In other words, in order to recover from the massive hangover, I was going out drinking and dancing and partying with good looking men all night long. Translation: I just now realized that I probably never wished her a Happy Birthday that year. I’m sure I dedicated at least a drink and maybe even a close dance with a good looking man to her. Not that dance with that Really Hot Guy that one night that was so awesome- I don’t want to think of her then – but maybe that other dance a few weeks later with the Not-So-Hot Guy who slobbered on my neck right before I kneed him. Somehow, that seems like a more appropriate time to think of that sister. ANYway, now it’s my turn. And I’ve been pretty good with the whole thing. 30, 20, 40 – I’ll always have sisters that are older and brothers that are younger. But now Fate’s trying to make me regret my decision to never care about my age. I FOUND A GRAY HAIR THIS MONTH. Now, to be fair, I’ve been dying my hair for about 10 years, so it’s more than likely that the gray has been there for some time. My mom and sisters both had gray hair at my age. But they were crazy enough to have children. I wasn’t. Therefore, I do NOT deserve gray hair. Luckily, Clairol’s Natural Instincts can still beat the ass out of the gray hairs on my head, as it proved when I rushed my next dye job. This is not living in denial. It’s called being a woman. Still, it could be worse. My husband now has gray hairs on his chest. If I degenerate that far and sprout gray hairs on my chest, just load my Oxygen canister with some good dope and put me in a diaper. Because life will not be worth living. And as if the Deadly Showdown taking place on my head wasn’t enough, Stepson went and got his driver’s license this week. Someone decided he’s allowed to take control of a car. I’m convinced that if the driving examiner had to live with 16 year olds and see the decisions they make on a day-to-day basis, then no one under the age of 25 would be able to operate anything more complicated than a toaster oven. And not one of those fancy ones with the bagel settings either. Still, Stepson is a very careful driver. To keep myself from having nightmares, I tell myself that surely – surely – he will not make stupid teenage decisions, that he has benefited from the close proximity he’s had to my wisdom for the past several years. And that maybe this will somehow spill over into the rest of his life and he will finally understand that it’s NEVER acceptable to eat ice cream over my favorite chenille throw?