Over-analyzing Compliments: You Age So Well!

I recently turned 27. And when I say recently, I mean barely over a month ago so it doesn’t even technically count. However, being the pessimist I am, I began preparing myself for being one year older six months in advance.

Six months after my 26th birthday, I began telling myself, “Holy shit you’re basically 27.” I told myself this so many times, that I often forgot I was actually 26, so once I remembered, it was like taking a time machine six months into the past! (The key to happiness is always denial)

By the time I actually turned 27, the sting was a little easier to bear. I had accepted the fact that I was no longer in my mid-twenties, and I was six months away from being 28 (again, denial = happiness). I enjoyed living my pitiful life through these rose-colored glasses. Until a young whippersnapper ripped those glasses off my face and crushed my soul with four seemingly innocent words upon hearing my age, “You age so well!”

I froze, unsure of whether I was supposed to say “Thank you” or “What the fuck is your problem!?” Thankfully, I was on a diet and not drinking (yet). I graciously accepted his compliment and died a little on the inside.

My mind began racing. When the fuck did I start aging, and doing it well for that matter?! I get it, I know, we all have birthdays once a year, we all get older. But at what point do you go from getting responses like “oh you’re just a baby” to “you age really well!” WHY THE FUCK WAS THIS TRANSITION NOT COVERED IN SEVENTH GRADE HEALTH CLASS!?

I did what any well-adjusted adult would do to remedy the situation, I began pounding Michelob Ultras with friends from high school in a game called Ride the Bus, jumping on the table after the fourth round and yelling “CHALUPAS ALL AROUND!” It was beautiful, for an evening I felt 18 again. Until I woke up in a hungover haze the next morning after being hauled home by my sober boyfriend the night before.

5am. What happened? Where am I? Am I still 18? No, you’re 3 years out from 30 you dumb piece of shit. Now get up and act your age.

I was determined to erase the night before by committing a few adult-like deeds. Since I didn’t drive myself home, I needed to get my car. I strapped on my Nike’s and workout gear and headed out the door into the darkness with a fork in hand, because I had too big of a headache to look for my mace.

I ran the two miles to my car, only stopping to dry-heave into the bushes three times (take THAT college Cass!) By the time I got to my car, the sun was rising. I posted a pic of the beautiful smog-filled sunrise in front of my friend’s frat-like-but-less-rapey home to instagram, so the world could see that I was a goddamned responsible adult.

I drove home with the windows down and the wind blowing through my alcohol infused sweaty hair. I jumped in the shower, put on my Sunday best, and headed to church, something I couldn’t remember the last time I did. The pain ringing in my head from my poor Saturday night decisions made it impossible to focus. I left before communion, the thought of drinking wine and crackers triggering images from the night before of shoving my face with beer and far too much Taco Bell than one person should ever consume.

The attempt to be an adult was there, but I was kidding nobody except maybe a few Instagram followers. I finally accepted my hungover Sunday fate, changed into my glow-in-the-dark onesie from Target, crawled into bed with a bucket of Red Vines and watched BoJack Horseman on Netflix the rest of the day. Monday would be the perfect day to start acting like an adult!

There are a couple morals to this story. The aforementioned true happiness cannot be obtained without extreme amounts of denial (ok, perhaps that may not work all the time). The second moral to this story is just avoid complimenting women at all costs. Chances are some of us ladies will figure out a way to over-analyze your compliment based on our own insecurities, turning you into a giant asshole. Juuuuuust kidddddding 🙂

Over-analyzing Compliments: You Age So Well!

How Long to Wait Until Your Boyfriend Discovers You Are Batshit Insane

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You’ve been watching him at work for 2 months. You know he goes to the gym after work, and suddenly you do too. You tell him he hasn’t seen you there before because you’ve been working out at the ass crack of dawn, total gym rat.

Except what you’ve really been doing at the ass crack of dawn is being passed out with a half-empty 1.5 liter bottle of Costco Cabernet sitting on your nightstand, Flamin’ Hot Cheeto crumbs all over your sheets and Netflix asking you if you really intended to watch three hours straight of Bob’s Burgers. (When would that answer ever be no?)

You’ve done the necessary investigative research via google to know that 10 years ago he averaged 3.1 points per basketball game in high school and that his address is 4565 Cxxxxx Wxx Los Angeles, California (Thanks for nothing, Intelius. You’ll crack that address code later).

You’ve researched his favorite bands and wear a vintage “Everclear” shirt on Casual Fridays. You’ve tracked down his Twitter and know that he live tweeted the 2012 presidential debate to his 3 followers. You choose to pretend like you didn’t see that. He has no Instagram, is he a serial killer? You’ll worry about that later. You’ve got bigger problems right now, and that’s hiding the fact that you are batshit insane.

Between the concerts of bands you’ve never fucking heard of and taking private lessons from a basketball trainer, you’ve managed to weasel your way into his life. This poor son of a bitch is actually starting to fall for you. So at what point do you clue him into your dark secret?

Is it the first time he tries to get intimate with you?

Him: “Baby, I’ve wanted this for so long.”

You: “Me too, I Facebook stalked your ex-girlfriend and she seems like a freak, so I’m guessing you are too. Mama like.”

But that’s no time for talking, you’ll wait.

Is it the first time he tells you he loves you?

Him: “Baby, I love you with all my heart.”

You: “I know your social security number and have the paint colors of our children’s rooms picked out.”

You don’t want to change the subject, so maybe you’ll hold out just a little longer.


Suddenly you’re married with five children and going out for a fancy Friday night date at the Olive Garden.

You’ve had three glasses of their cheapest Merlot and by the fourth you’ve asked for them to add ice, because it’s summer. When your iced Merlot arrives (you will make it a thing), there’s a black fly sitting complacently on an ice cube. This may be no chardonnay, but all you can hear in your head is Alanis Morissette’s Ironic, and all you can see is that smug black fly staring back at you. And suddenly, it’s time.

Your eyes grow wide, your veins pulsing with alfredo sauce and adrenaline. You channel Teresa Giudice and flip the table (obviously not before grabbing one last breadstick), before somewhat coherently screaming that you just want to be able to take a shit in peace. You storm off, and that was all she wrote. Until next week’s date at Red Lobster.


So when you ask yourself how long you should wait until you clue your boyfriend in that you are, in fact, batshit insane, I leave you with this piece of advice: keep that skeleton locked tight in your closet next to the bags of Oreo’s and handkerchiefs soaked in the tears of your failed relationships, because chances are you didn’t hide it all that well anyway before your midlife, wine induced meltdown in the middle of an Olive Garden. And know this: you do deserve to take a shit in peace every once in a while.

How Long to Wait Until Your Boyfriend Discovers You Are Batshit Insane