I'm PostMaloneopausal.

I recently saw Post Malone and Jelly Roll on the Big Ass Stadium Tour, which was pretty fantastic. I love Posty’s early stuff and hadn’t listened to anything by Jelly Roll, but they were both terrific and Jelly Roll was a bit of a surprise. It was a hot July evening, so I had to indulge in a few stadium Mich Ultras. I’ve since filed an assault charge against the stadium for serving warm beer. Not cool. Not lukewarm. WARM. And that is a crime against humanity.

While unhappily sipping my warm beer (what? They’re like $50 each! I’m whiny, not wasteful.) I contemplated the artist that is Post Malone. He’s conflicted. He’s tender. He’s a little sad. He’s emotional. He’s mildly bitter. He’s funny. And then it hit me - Post Malone is a middle-aged woman. Let’s take a look at his own lyrics to see why.

This line in White Iverson really hits home. I’m always saucin’. Usually on myself and mostly in light-colored tops. Chick Fil A sauce, BBQ sauce, ketchup, coffee… the other day I sauced a Caribbean Jerk Chicken sandwich all over myself. And when I have sauced all over myself? I’m usually swaggin’ as well.

I’m sure this line in Goodbyes was written because someone tried to spoon with him. You see it in movies, soap operas, etc., people who wrap up in each other’s arms, all smoochy and lovey. In my 20’s? Sure. In my 30’s? Maybe. After 40 - oh hell no. Mama is HOT. And then cold. But mostly HOT. Current Husband is like a furnace - you can see the heat waves coming off of him - and he manspreads all over the place. Like Post, I have fans. Two of them, going at all times in my bedroom. Like Posty, I want you out of my bed. Not because I don’t love you - of course I do. But you’re too hot and you take up too much mattress. Let’s leave space for a cooling Jesus between us.

I don’t own a fancy watch, but I think Posty will approve if I substitute some joints here. I used to take stairs two at a time. I hauled furniture around to repaint it for my store at the time. My body worked perfectly, what could happen? Until my knees started sounding like Rice Krispies. My knees crack so loud that other people taking the stairs with me look around for the source. I recorded myself walking up the stairs at work and played it for my doctor. He listened, looked impressed, and said it sounded like a future knee replacement. Dollar signs actually popped up in his eyes like a Bugs Bunny cartoon. But fake joints only last 20 years, so you start the math - When will I stop having health insurance? How long will I live? How long can I be off work? How much is a recliner? Where do I buy a motorized scooter? Who is this? Why are you calling me? GET OFF MY YARD!

Okay. Deep breaths. I think I am better now.

Actually, I’m quite flexible. Or at least I used to be. I used to be able to do flat hands on the floor by my feet, but now it’s more of a fingertip situation. I’m more worried about not SEEING my toes in the future if what the internet called my “stomach apron” keeps growing. I miss my metabolism. I do pop the pillies, every day out of a special box with alternating colored flip tops with the day of the week to help me remember. Just like a Rockstar. I feel you, Post.

Posty and Jelly Roll and me. Three middle-aged women, fighting against gravity, time, and space. Doing some emotional eating, not knowing what hairstyle fits our face shape, making questionable fashion choices, always tired, rocking the mom jeans. They may have written this song for me:

Let's hear it for the Losers
Ain't got nowhere to fit in (like the wardrobe from our 30’s)
There's a place you can always get in (thank you, Lululemon pants.)

Until next time, Gentle Wifers.