The uncool life of a middle-aged woman

Some things just aren't the same when you're 44 compared to, say, 18.

Take getting into a convertible without using the doors.

An 18-year-old takes a two-step running start, places their hand on the door, flips their legs over and glides into the drivers seat all somehow in one smooth motion.

The 44-year-old version? That goes something like this.

She pushes her cart to the convertible on which she left the top down but the windows up so as to prevent any passing theivery while she was in the store. She opens the door, throws her keys on the driver's seat, her purse on the passenger's seat, and turns to unload the 30-pound bag of potting soil teetering across the top of the cart when she notices that the cart is rolling away. She chases it down, unloads the soil and slams the door.

That's when she hears it.

The unmistakable "click" of the automatic door locks. She glances down. There they are, the keys in plain view, lying on the drivers seat, calling "Here we are and you can't reach us!". Knowing any attempt to tamper with the door will surely set of the car alarm, she ponders what to do. She decides there's only one option.

She's got to crawl in.

She looks to the right...she looks to the left...she decides it's safe. She lifts one leg onto the rear bumper. She groans as this bothers her already-sore back from lifting the 30 pounds of potting soil. She hoists the rest of her body onto the back of the car. She, oh so gingerly, lowers her leg into the back seat. More groaning. She crouches into the back seat and momentarily contemplates how she's going to worm her way under the roll bar, across the arm rest and into the drivers seat. After much more groaning and more bodily contortion than she ever thought possible, she does it. She glances around once again and sheepishly drives off.