Aging, As Experienced By A Woman at Home Depot

More saving. More doing. More reminders that you are creeping ever closer to the grave.

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On a particularly touching episode of Amy Poehler’s podcast Good Hang, 93-year-old Carol Burnett said that she “feels 11” on the inside. I choked up alongside Amy, and realized that, like Carol, I also don’t feel my biological age of 40 (forty) (cuarenta) (XL) (FORTY!).

I think my internal aging clock stopped somewhere around 22 years old, an age when I had no responsibilities, no worries, and lived almost exclusively on Taco Bell tacos and bottomless mimosas.

Of course, it is painfully clear every day that I am not in fact 22 years old. My knees are both shot from running, my face is slowly melting into Silly Putty and I can’t have even a sip of champagne without an ibuprofen chaser. And of course, there’s the child and husband over whom I fret every single moment of the day.

Strangely, though, more than visits to the doctor for weird moles; more so than my child growing up before my eyes, more so than when I apply 67 products to my face before bed; I never feel more acutely my biological age than when I pass through the hissing doors of one of my most patronized establishments: The Home Depot.

It is within the orange shelves that my mortality is laid bare; where interactions with staff remind me that no matter what age I feel on the inside, the reality is I am getting older–and quick. It seems that with every visit, a quiet voice from the rafters reminds me that I am one pack of wood screws closer to death.

Below, a 20-year timeline of aging, as experienced by me, a woman at Home Depot:

Age 16:

It’s my first time at Home Depot unaccompanied by a parent. I need a small sheet of plywood for a school project, and a nice older gentleman helps me find the best piece of sanded birch. He calls me kiddo and says he expects me to come back and tell him that I got an A.

Total spent: $12.95

Age 20:

I enter the store and am immediately intercepted by a cute guy my age who asks if I need assistance, walks me to the spray paint aisle, helps me choose the right type for my “art” project, walks with me to the checkout line, and helps me carry the single can to my beat-up Camry.

“My name’s Andrew,” he says through the driver’s side window, handing me a slip of paper with his phone number on it. “Call me.”

Total spent: $2.50

Age 24:

I’m browsing edible plants that will not survive even a day in my care. I have a long conversation about my newly adopted vegan diet with Chad in Garden who says “bummer” when I hand over my credit card and he notices my engagement ring. He tells me to come find him if it “doesn’t work out.”

Total spent: $65, but technically zero, because I returned all the plants when they died a week later.

Age 28:

In my DIY era. I’m buying wood, screws, and stain to build a coffee table. As I struggle with a twelve-foot 2X6, a man in an orange apron approaches and says he finds it “cute that ladies are attempting little projects like these.” I laugh uncomfortably, but let him help me with the lumber while wondering if I have set feminism back decades by not giving him a piece of my mind.

Total spent: $112

Age 31:

Heavily pregnant and working on my baby’s nursery, I find myself lost in the decorative paneling section.

“Let me guess, shiplap?” asks the bored employee on a forklift. I want to scoff, but he’s right. I am looking for shiplap. He tells me I’m going to need a cart, and when I pause, a hand on my back to support my watermelon-sized belly, he begrudgingly goes to retrieve one for me.

Total spent: $350 (why is shiplap so fucking expensive????)

Age 34:

Accompanied by a screaming, sweaty toddler, I frantically search for a tower fan, because it’s the dead of summer and our AC has gone out. I am seemingly invisible as I drag both the fan and my squirming child to the checkout line. The barely-legal girl at the register looks equal parts disgusted and sympathetic. She says “good luck,” as I leave, but it sounds more like “better you than me.”

Total spent: $99

Age 36:

Just a quick stop for lightbulbs, but for the first time, the solar salesman at the entrance approaches me and asks if I own my home. I feel a sense of pride — I look like a stable, independent woman who owns her own home! What a complim–

“I‘d love to talk to your husband about our current special,” he continues, looking over my shoulder.

“Well, that’s too bad,” I say. “Because he’s DEAD.”

(I don’t really say that. I just sigh and keep walking.)

Total spent: $12

Age 40:

Tile, adhesive, grout, backer board and screws. We’re taking on a bathroom remodel ourselves, a choice we will soon come to regret. In the tile section, I browse the range of thinset brands.

“You want mastic, not thinset,” says a passing employee, a young guy who reeks of Axe body spray and looks vaguely familiar. I frown, rereading the instructions I’ve saved on my phone.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “It’s thinset for flooring, isn’t it?” I smile, hoping I look grateful and not condescending. I don’t want to make the kid feel dumb, after all. Even if he is wrong.

He shoots me a glare like I’m the stupidest, oldest, most useless person on earth, and at that moment, I realize who he reminds me of. With his hair flopping down over his eyes and his baggy jeans, he looks exactly like Andrew, the boy from twenty years ago who passed his number through my open car window.

He slouches past me, rolling his eyes.

“Your funeral, lady.”

I muscle the bag of thinset into my cart and push it to the checkout, alone.

Total spent: $568