proof that i'm prematurely aging myself beyond my years

My near daily Satellite Sisters podcast fix could be reason enough. I can't think why else I'd find it relaxing (nay, enjoyable, even) to listen to a handful of middle-aged sisters talk to each other. It's a little like The View (you know, if The View were all sisters with history and similar opinions and if I'd ever actually seen an episode of The View and was qualified to make this comparison at all, which I'm not) and it's the sort of thing a boring grown-up mom listens to. Wait, this about premature aging. Oh, you mean if I'm decidedly into my thirties now and my oldest baby is nearly nine and I intentionally listen to middle aged women talk about middle aged women things, I guess there's nothing very premature about my aging at all, is there? Okay, then why do I cringe a little every time I sling my current bag over my shoulder? It's one of those nylon healthy-back sling bags and it has plenty of pockets and places to put everything I need and I thrifted it for a dollar, so what's not to like, right? But I just can't quite embrace that I'm the perfect target demographic for such a drab thing. I spent far too long today looking at style and pattern options at the lesportsac website and none of the bags I imagined buying gave me the same fantastic urge I get every time I grab my current tote to run right out and dye my hair. (if this were really about premature aging, I'd insert an interesting little anecdote here about plucking my first gray/white hair at 21 but you'll just have to imagine my dominant gray hair genes and how they've been running wild for well past a decade). I might ruminate on this while I'm painting my kitchen later tonight (I plan to squeeze as much as I can out of that extra hour). . . do I replace my handbag with something kickier and more fun or do I flip a coin between dark natural brown and golden medium brown and see what happens?