Did you ever feel that you're always a day late and a dollar short? I do. I can't seem to keep track of the days any more as they run together in a continuous blob. (Or is that blog?) I've heard this is a symptom of getting old.
I remember, years ago, looking at my grandmother, whom we called Mamaw, and thinking "She's old. She's really old." The trouble is, Mamaw, at that time, was the same age I am now.
Yes, I know. I've heard all the hype. Sixty is the new forty. Forty is the new twenty-five. And orange is the new black. If we keep on that track, I might convince myself that I'm only fifteen and that orange is as slimming as black. Once more, we have a problem. You see, sixty isn't the new forty and orange will never be as slimming as black.
Still, we menopausers buy into it. Why? Because we are desperately trying to find a way to not feel old. So we have Botox injected into the wrinkles between our brows and Rejuvederm stuck in our laugh lines. (Well, I haven't done it yet, but I'm tempted. Really tempted.)
If you don't believe me, take it from Maxine: sixty isn't the new forty and any self-respecting 40-year-old will tell you so.
I'm nearly 40. Some days it feels like it might be the new 60!
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