No, this is not me singing "Fish Cheer," or flipping someone off, this is an honest look at what it’s like to be Fifty. See how I try to lure you in. I'm tricky that way. Don't worry, the first thing I did was increase the font size. You shouldn't have to "strain" to read.
My hair stylist, a crazy styleless, 60 something German women, suggested I try honey as a night time facial moisturizer. I woke the next morning to the cat, licking the side of my face. The other side was stuck to my pillow case.
I should know better than to own a cat. I've seen Gray Gardens - the musical, the documentary AND the HBO special. Gray Gardens shows you just how easy it is to go from a sought after socialite, to a crazy ass cat lady. A cat will suck away your need for human interaction. A dog would never do that. If it weren’t for my ying-yang balance of cat and dog, I might never leave the house.
I go for weekly manicures because I love the free massage. If I’m lucky, my masseuse will wear deodorant and his fingers will be long enough so that they almost touch the rise of my breasts.
I tried Botox for the furrows above and between my eyes. The result - my eyes drooped, I looked exhausted, and my 2 skin cancer forehead scars became more pronounced. Botox instantly transforming me into a tired, expressionless, beaten up, old woman – I’ll be damned if I’ll pay money for that!
My ass used to be my no#1 physical asset. Now it’s my ankles, or more appropriately, my lack of cankles.
My love of spanx has replaced my longing for thongs.
Forget about finding jeans that make my ass look good. Finding jeans that don’t create “muffin top” is now my top priority.
The thought of wearing elastic waist jeans is repulsive yet I have no problem wearing sweat pants.
I have not walked away from my husband, naked, for almost 7 years. I now do this adorable, back stepping glide – my dark side version of a moon walk.
I took my car in for servicing the other day. Even with the seat warmer set on “0” the temperature was way too hot. The technician explained that my fuse had blown and the seat warmer no longer worked. I told him that was impossible. He told me to ask my gynecologist for a second opinion.
My daughter will whip out the “M” word anytime our conversations turn heated. “You’re so emotional now that you’re menopausal” she’ll tell me. My reply, “hey, I’m still fertile and I’ll prove it if I have to.” The visual alone is enough to silence her.
I long for the days when strangers referred to me as “MISS.” Being called “Maam” makes me want to start slapping people.
To celebrate my 50th birthday I did a wine induced cartwheel. Half way through, I felt a snap – apparently this is the sound discs make when they snap out of place. Sadly, my cartwheel days are over.
My oasis of a bedroom was instantly transformed into a hospital room when my zero gravity, relax the back, chair arrived.
I am being hounded, bullied and pressured into joining this sick, twisted, frail gang called "AARP."
I developed a brief crush on my chiropractor when he convinced me I’d be able to run pain free. He lied. We broke up. I walked away.
Sipping wine in bed has replaced bar hoping.
I go to more funerals than weddings.
I have a friend who has a trampoline. I can no longer jump on her trampoline without wetting myself.
I keep my elbow glued to my waist when I wave and if anyone needs some extra skin, I’ve got 6 folds on the back of each elbow.
My vision decline is synced perfectly with the growth of my ears. I'm told I look better, now that I'm older, with short hair. I now try to keep my hair short enough so that I look "better" but long enough to cover my monkey ears.
I recently took my 86 year old father to see the movie “Avatar.” In an attempt to get as close to the theater entrance as possible, I outmaneuvered a twenty year old for a pristine parking space. Not only was she not sympathetic to the sight of my father hobbling - one hand on his cane the other hooked onto my arm - she called me an “old cow.” Afterwards, I asked my father if he liked the movie. “It was okay” he answered. “What was your favorite part?” I questioned. His reply, “Hearing that girl call you an Old Cow!”
I’ve figured out a solution to my fifty year old woes (and no, it doesn’t involve Preparation H). I’ve decided to have fun with it - to flaunt it, to laugh out loud - especially at myself.
(CLICK ON THE LINK)
NO, NOT THE PICTURE
CLICK ON "OKAY, this time I mean it..."GIVE ME AN F"
For all of you 50 something's - remember when we were too young to go to Woodstock?