I’m 29 in My Mind, 12 in Humor, and 52 in Real Life (But Pretty Sure My Body Died at Gettysburg)”
A Blog by A.L. Childers, Author | Truth Teller | Gen X National Treasure
⚠️ Disclaimer:
This blog is not FDA-approved but may drastically improve your mood. Side effects include sudden laughter, back pain empathy, a strong desire to stretch, and spontaneous memories of slap bracelets. If you’re under 30, read this as a warning. If you’re over 50, read this like a group text with your favorite cousin who tells it like it is.
🧠 Mentally: I’m 29. Obviously.
I’m 52. But if you ask my mind? She’s stuck at 29, sipping iced coffee, making vision boards, and totally convinced she can pull an all-nighter if properly motivated by retail therapy and nachos.
She’s convinced we still have time to backpack across Europe, launch three businesses, do squats without sound effects, and attend a music festival that doesn’t end by 9 p.m.
But also… she forgets what day it is and why she walked into the room. She’s doing her best, okay?
🤪 Humor-wise: Let’s Be Honest, I’m 12
Toilet humor? Still funny.
People falling in a non-serious way? Hilarious.
Fart jokes? Don’t even get me started.
I laugh every time my dog snorts. I make sarcastic comments under my breath like it’s a sport. And my meme folder? Certified comedic gold.
I’m the person who’ll giggle at the word “duty” in a board meeting and then offer a deeply profound opinion on federal policy. Duality, baby.
🦴 Physically: Deceased Since Gettysburg
There’s no other explanation. These bones? Historic artifacts. These knees? War survivors. That sound my shoulder makes when I reach for the remote? Unholy. I’m one deep stretch away from opening a portal to 1863.
My back has an attitude. My hip is petty. And if I sleep wrong, I need two days of physical therapy, one heating pad, and a prayer circle.
Some days I wake up feeling invincible. Other days, I pull a muscle sneezing. It’s like a surprise party but for disappointment.
🎯 But Here’s the Twist: I Wouldn’t Trade It
I’ve earned every wrinkle, every scar, and every “snap-crackle-pop” that echoes through my living room when I get off the couch.
I’ve survived low-rise jeans, toxic friends, 14-step skincare routines, and decades of societal nonsense. At 52, I’ve finally figured out who I am—and guess what? She’s hilarious, wise, and takes naps without guilt.
This age isn’t a breakdown. It’s a breakthrough. A glow-up wrapped in Tiger Balm and sarcasm.
👑 About the Author
A.L. Childers is 52 years wise, fabulously flawed, and aging like vintage sarcasm. She’s the pen behind over 200 published books, dozens of healing blogs, and more than one strongly worded letter to corporations who sell toxic deodorant.
Known as The Hypothyroidism Chick online and the Queen of Comebacks in real life, A.L. blends deep truths with deeper laughs. Her writing is raw, real, and ridiculously relatable. She believes in boundaries, boldness, and the magic of a well-timed eye roll.
If you don’t know her yet—pull up a seat. If you do, you already know the tea’s hot, the humor’s healing, and the stories are soul food.
🧡 Final Pep Talk
If you’re reading this wondering how you got here—this beautiful, weird, achy stage of life—just know you’re not alone.
You’re part of the generation that drank from water hoses, survived MySpace, and still knows the lyrics to every 80s love song. You’ve got grit. You’ve got grace. And you’ve got no time for people who don’t get your humor.
At 52, we don’t fall apart—we reinvent.
So go stretch. Laugh until something cracks. And remember: if your body sounds haunted, just tell people it’s a Civil War ghost and keep it moving.
