Life decisions (that I can't post on Facebook or Twitter because it's too lame for public consumption–I barely think of this blog as public). Do I wear a bright coral or a hot pink on my toes for vacation? (Revlon's embarrassingly named Fashionista has already been decided for my fingernails.) I mean, I've got to live with whatever color for two weeks. Despite the certain cheap price, I just wouldn't get a manicure or pedicure in, say, Bangkok (though I did get a haircut there once) especially considering I've never had one in NYC.
Meanwhile, one of our cats, technically James', is dying. Which we could deal with except that it would be a horrible thing to happen while we're out of town and a cat-sitter is periodically checking in. Because of kidney failure, the vet thought he should be put to sleep, but instead James did what you're not supposed to do and spent a bunch of money and had Caesar kept on fluids for two nights at the vet and then brought him home instead of saying goodbye. I get it because the cat can still jump and walk around and wants to hang out. And he's not totally elderly–we got him 9/9/01, the Sunday before the World Trade Center attacks, more than ten years ago, so I always associate him with that era. And he was probably three or four already then. But he can barely eat so he's on anti-nausea meds and an appetite stimulant. So the apartment is serving as cat hospice, but it seems cruel to leave him here during a heatwave for two weeks with a stranger checking in every few days. Decisions will have to be made in the next few days. This is more thought than I've given to human relatives, not that I didn't care, but that it was not within my control.
I do not talk too personally at work, and I do not speak of work too much here. It's dangerous (even though I just said I feel this blog is barely public). But a coworker recently mentioned that middle age was 35 during a meeting and I totally freaked. I then said that I was about to turn 40, and I think she freaked (she's over a decade older) and said she thought I was 32-35. I don't know that it's my actual appearance, but that I come across (in person–I have no idea, even after all these years, how I come across online) as malleable and not fully confident in my abilities, which makes me seem younger.
It's probably not the best tact, but it does impress when you do something amazing. And then I remember how self-deprecation is very Gen X and serves no one in that demographic well with a cocky, entitled crew double the size nipping at your heels. (And as someone who I guess works in marketing, I'm regularly dismayed at how Gen X has all been excluded from the conversation about who retailers should sell crap to. I cover grocery shopping at work, so I was well aware of this study mentioned on NPR that contrasts the buying behavior of Boomers and Millennials and fails to even talk about anyone between 34 and 47 because apparently they don't buy groceries).
Looking young for your age is an awesome problem to have from a superficial standpoint. Though, I can't help but wonder how if hurts your earning ability. Without divulging too much (I do know that in reality, this blog is very much public) I suspect (and in one case, know for sure) I've been pegged salary-wise with coworkers a decade-plus younger than me. Obviously, there's more at play than mere age, but it's one more thing to worry about. And now I will shut up about this before I get into hot water. But it's drunk pics on Facebook that get kid into trouble with their employers, right?