Yesterday my daughter and I went to a dermatologist office and got photos taken that show sun damage on your face.
While in line, the woman in front of us began chatting and after some talk asked if I was the “older sister”. I just about bust a gut from the look on my daughter’s face.
This has happened before and I make sure to keep these memories alive and taunt my children by recalling them with relish.
I don’t even need a Christmas gift. Or a new charge card. Looking like your kid’s sister? Priceless.
Why, oh why do middle aged women who are still very attractive, feel (and act on) the need to show us they still got it?
Posting photos in bikini tops and Smartphone “glamour shots” on Facebook is so pitiful, especially when you are over 18. Why can’t women just be happy that they look great for their age? I am. Of course that is reference to a headshot of me. A bikini could make someone lose their lunch, commit to a starvation diet or cause involuntary stomach contractions. But even if I did have a hot below the neck area, why show everyone that I am so in need of attention that I will advertise my vanity on Facebook? I wish it was only faces. It should be In Your Facebook. Or Lamebook.
So this is for all the 30, 40 or 50 somethings out there who feel the need to show us they are still attractive. I will say the things that perhaps their mothers or fathers neglected to tell them when instilling a sense of pride and dignity when they were in their youth.
You are so pretty.
Your figure is so amazing – you look like you’re still 20!
I wish I was as fetching as you still are.
You are hotter than you were ten years ago.
There. Does that make you feel better? I hope so because I am so sick and tired of seeing your puss pouting in a pretty pose for your cellphone. That is so sad – get over yourself. I don’t want to see you in a halter wearing a cowboy hat (when you live in Western New York – well, it is Western…) with a bale of hay behind you like you are waiting for a cowpoke. This is not Beverly Hillbillies and you are NOT Daisy Mae.
And now here is what I really want to say:
Why do you still need validation about your looks?
Go to the mall and get some stares instead of advertising your midriff for all of the world’s pervs to drool over.
You should be mortified but you are too in need of approval to notice.
Get a turtleneck.
There. I feel better. It’s going to be close to 95 degrees today and need to wear my bathing suit where it should be worn. In the pool. That’s where I make a splash.
Oh, happy day. For two reasons. One was that our waitress last night thought I was my daughter’s friend, the other because it ticks her off so much when this happens.
While I did nothing to deserve them, I got good aging genes. That and Lady Clairol have made it possible for me to fool some and confound others. The best part is that it bothers, irks and makes the kids squirm. Some sick, twisted part of me really enjoys this. (And also justifies the amount of money I spend on creams and potions at Marshalls.)
And when this case of mistaken age-identity happens, there are so many retorts from the kids:
- What do you want? We were in a bar.
- It was dark.
- They were drinking.
- They must need glasses.
- They wanted a big tip from you.
- You paid them to say that when you went to the bathroom.
- They didn’t see your body, only your face.
To this I respond by recanting, multiple times, to as many people as possible, what just happened. And oh, how sweet it is.
I don’t feel old. I don’t feel anything till noon. That’s when it’s time for my nap. ~ Bob Hope