The Prescription Club

Here I sit propped haphazardly on four pillows, sniffling away, and feeling quite ornery. Has old age hit me? As my Erdenheim Elementary pals and I so creatively performed in Kate VH’s living room decades ago, I do believe my soundtrack for this birthday thus far comes from The Sound of Mucus (with a newly arranged song, “I am Thirty Going on Eighty”).

On Tuesday, September 14^th, I turned the big 3-0. I have entered my fourth decade, and celebrated my embarkment on this journey wearing a potato sack I purchased at a “boutique” in the Chatelet Metro stop in between my teaching position and my osteo appointment. I justified the twenty-seven euro splurge by knowing that my protruding hip would look less apparent in such a boxy number. Sadly, I didn’t have time to purchase orthopedic pumps to accompany my polyester shift.

As it has been weeks now since my journey into the French medical system began, I didn’t feel quite so peeved by my situation until I realized that this is simply what accompanies age (that and little extra pockets of skin here and there). And if so, I am not interested. I want to age gracefully, not feel like 30 has hit me over the head (and the hip, and the nose, and the toe -- which is by the way still ailing from when I get ran over by an old lady’s shopping cart). I am feeling overwhelmed, and blaming it on the quick and drastic exit of my youth.

My birthday week started well: the Monday prior I had a young man in class exclaim, “You are young!” What I didn’t realize until further chatter was that this was because he thought I had said thirteen and not thirty (a pronunciation issue I see frequently with my French-speaking kiddos). It was made up for by the birthday serenade in class the following morning, and the two young girls who spent their recess building me a strawberry and chocolate layered cake out of Jenga blocks. I returned from the bathroom only to be handed my piece. I was clearly very important.

But as the day wore on, I could tell that thirty was indeed not going to suit me. The sore throat, the protruding hip and back pain -- my body was revolting. Weeks ago when we were sitting in our hotel bed in Cannes planning my soiree, it was a sign that when we Googled “preppy bars in Paris,” la premiere link was the Prescription Cocktail Club. As I spent Tuesday evening there with the wonderful friends I have forged since arriving here only nine months ago, it was easy to forget for just a few hours (thanks to the American cupcakes, vodka, and Vicodin) that I am embarking on my journey towards elderly -- the newest member of the Prescription Club.

Some people take age with stride. Perhaps that is because they can still walk (and do so in sexy heels and dresses that don’t look like they have come from the “Home” section of Galeries Lafayette). However, Chanel took her unique style and made it into an empire. Dr. Scholl’s, you might just be getting a run (more like wobble) for your money. Move over Manolo … for Fall ’10, I see thick soles and plastic.

On a side note (my left one not my distorted right one) -- a very happy birthday to my twin, Meredith! I hope you enjoy the Mephistos I sent you.