Here’s how I know I am old.
I thought Madonna rocked it at halftime. I think she earned the Super Bowl and Lady GaGa will get her chance.
Given the choice between a diamond ring and a dishwasher, dishwasher wins hands-down.
Just the thought of high heels makes my feet throb.
I can’t stand Katie Perry. I think all her songs sound the same and she’s a lousy role model for girls.
I have chin hairs. Just three, but still.
I don’t tweet.
I secretly read Family Circle and Woman’s Day magazines for the crock pot recipes and the tips on getting a better night’s sleep, loosing weight and saving money–none of which I seem to be able to do.
I like jigsaw puzzles. I like 500 to 750 pieces, but occasionally will shoot for 1,000.
I drink low sodium V-8 juice.
My eyelids are drooping, along with a number of other body parts.
AARP keeps sending me stuff in the mail, which I promptly rip up.
I ask my kids to pick things up off the floor for me so I won’t have to bend down.
And sometimes when my head hits the pillow at night it feels, for just a split second, like I’m dying.