1. I find Dougal more attractive than Jamie. I do. Maybe it’s the power. Maybe it’s that Scottish burr. Maybe it’s that beard with the jaunty tam. Or maybe I just like to say the name Dougal with a Scottish accent. Whatever the reason, I just can’t help but think he’d be so much more interesting than Jamie, who, despite his fantastic physical appeal, reminds me a little of a puppy.



(Now, before you say it, I know, I know, Dougal is at times creepy/criminal, but I’ve got the fanfic rewrite covered in my head where I take the creepy bits outs. I know her Ladyship Gabaldon doesn’t like Fanfic, but to that I say, “You can’t police my head lady!” There. I feel better.

2. I bruise very easily these days. I’ve played soccer my entire life, and never before have I had bruises like these:


My father noticed these bruises and asked, “Are you taking pain relievers before the game?” To which I replied, “Of course. Doesn’t everybody?” His reply, “It’s the blood-thinners Auralee.” He then added, “Man, you’re getting old.”

Yeah, well, not as old as you, Dad.

3. I can no longer easily picture a menage a trois with me and the Winchester brothers.

Winchester brothers

I don’t know what it is. I’m about the same age as Jensen. Maybe it’s the fact that the age of the women they date on the show never seems to change. Maybe all their “damage” is getting to be a little bit of turnoff (more on this later). Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m now folding the laundry of three children while I’m watching them, and really they would just be another thing to do.

Don’t worry though. Just because I can’t easily picture it, doesn’t mean it’s impossible. I’ll redouble my efforts.

4. I don’t remember what four was! Seriously. I don’t. And I can’t be bothered to try to remember. On the plus side, my reaction to most unpleasant things these days is Meh. Such a relief from the drama of my twenties.

5. NA fiction turns me into Archie Bunker.

Archie Bunker


This may sound strange given that my stuff could be considered NA, and I do believe it can be done well, but when it isn’t…man, the addiction/glorification to dysfunction makes me want to ralph (I thought I throw in the eighties euphemism there just to reinforce the point that I’m getting old). When it comes to NA, I often find myself thinking, Get a job. Get a haircut. Your incessant navel gazing makes me want to slap you.

Hmm, I think my approach to this stage of life may need to soften before my kids become teenagers.


SO there you have it. I’m getting old. And yet, I would hate to leave the impression that I’m upset by this. I do find aging process fascinating, and, besides, if I went back to being 20, well, then I’d want to slap myself…and then I’d become just another NA heroine who hates herself!  *shudders* (What do the asterisks mean anyway? Just kidding. I understand The Twitter.)

Five Signs I’m Getting Old

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