Yesterday was a troubling day.
Not only was it the day of the last of the blood moon tetrad, which was also supposed to usher in the end-of-the-world-financial-zombie-apocalypse (I’m not saying it still won’t), but I also passed through a portal that was most certainly at least ten more years away. I’m convinced this blood moon thing did something to speed up time. Read on to discover why.
It all started so innocently, as I’m told such things do. I was in the drive-thru buying some lunch for Isaiah and myself following the morning church service. Our house was full of guests (the evangelist and his fiance and a dog named Stella and the rest of our brood). Since Isaiah and I were feeling poorly, we were on our way to a friend’s very quiet house to rest in quiet tranquility. (Thanks, Christopher!)
Thinking a bit of chicken would perk us up, we waited in the looooooong line that is our local southern fried chicken establishment. (It’s not that the lines are long, it’s just that this particular eatery always has extremely slow service).
Finally, I pull my car up to the window to pay for our order.
It looked innocent enough. Little did I know it was a portal to that dreadful place all women are convinced they will never pass through.
But I was wrong. It happened. Just like that. Right there in my car, wearing my Sunday best. A handsome teenager sucked me into the vortex with seven devastating words:
I took the selfie pic (below) of me this morning in my car, still perplexed that I had been so abruptly pulled into the whirlwind of senior citizenry. I’m still convinced it was a case of mistaken identity. (So, I may or may not have edited the photo to blur out a few wrinkles…there aren’t that many…,right? Right?)
Shouldn’t there be some sort of warning before this happens? A summons delivered to your door by the sheriff? A text that asks you to enter a code for an option to delay said crossing over? A simple phone call?
Instead I’m now suffering from post-traumatic-they-think-I’m-antiquated-disorder.
Ahem. Just for the record? This is old:
This is not.
Now, excuse me while I call a plastic surgeon. Aging gracefully isn’t in my DNA. This girl’s going into it kicking and screaming.
Would you be so kind as to tweet?