Aging Not So Gracefully

So I was getting out of the shower the other day, towelling off, applying lotion and the usual. As I was smoothing the lotion over the back of my right knee, I noticed something that looked like a nasty bruise. Now, bruises are not unusual for me, I am the worlds biggest klutz. I went to get in the shower a few weeks ago and almost fell and busted my butt, ending up with an ugly bruise on my shin. See, not unusual.

But this was not a bruise. This was nature's way of saying, "Guess what, kiddo. You are not quite as young as you used to be. I thought I'd slap a reminder in your face by planting this god-awful VARICOSE vein right here for the world to see. Have a good day!"

I was on the bathroom floor hyperventilating for about two minutes after I found it.

I am not a vain person, I swear. I am a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl. I don't wear make-up, and about the most exciting thing I do with my hair is throw it up in a pony-tail before work. And it's not that I mind getting older, really. Turning thirty only freaked me out a tiny bit. Seeing that gravity works doesn't bother me as much as some other people. Noticing the tiny fine lines around my eyes is not making me crazy, yet.

But as each year passes, I am starting to realize that I have not accomplished much in the almost third of a century I have been alive.

Sure, my life is better off than a lot of people. I have steady work from an employer that is not going anywhere in the near future. I have pretty decent health benefits. I have a roof over my head, a car to drive and food in my belly whenever I want it. I am not hooked on drugs any longer. I have four butt-head cats who think I'm the shit. My life is decent.

So why is it that I feel like there is a huge piece of something missing from my life?

I don't know if I am just naturally blue, like my mother, or if it is something more serious.

Maybe I am just guilty of the American disease of "I want more."