The first thing everyone thinks of when they think about aging is gray hair. What no one tells you is how, like butts, God did not create all gray hairs equal. At this point, my head has sprouted two different species of grays: "regular" and "head pubes."
Regular grays, if left alone to do their thing, lay like comatose angels sleeping quietly on a bed of hair, calming down your head and reminding the other hairs to be good and say their prayers at night. Someday, regular grays will stage a peaceful takeover of my head and silently turn me into an otherworldly being with a head full of God thread, or Emmylou Harris. Other than being the quiet sentinels of death, regular grays are fairly benign. Head pubes, on the other hand, erupt from your scalp in angry spirals of bleached crazy, completely oblivious to the fact that no other hair on your head looks like this. Take one hair from Phil Spector's "I'm Not a Murderer, Look at How Sane I Am" trial wig, glue it to the tippy-top of your head, and that's what a head pube looks like.
My posture, while never great, can now only be described as "C" ish. As in, my back makes the shape of the letter "C" unless I'm laying down or actively straightening it, which is never. In five years, my chin will graze the desk as I type. In ten, I'll be done with eating utensils forever, since my face will be resting on the dinner plate and why bother. In 15 years, I'll start wearing a mask on the crown of my head so that everyone will have someone to talk to while I'm in my permanent toe touch position. I'll start practicing carrying trays of food on my back so I can dress up as "Saddest, Oldest Waitress" at Halloween.
And wait! There's more! Every year, your eyelashes and eyebrows thin a little. One day, you wake up and you're Powder. My knuckle fat folds are tripling every night. Looking at my hands is like looking at ten tiny Shar Pei puppies.
I call these two "Pancho" and "Lefty."