Hello folks, let’s chat…My birthday has me thinking about the aging process, but not in a I-should-have-face-freezing-surgery sort of way. And that’s not because they’re saying 50 is the new 30. That sounds like Common Core or something. Besides, if 50 is the new 30, at 53 I’d be 33 and raising teenagers again. I’m going with thank you but no thank you on revisiting that special season. (Mama loves you Jessica and Phillip).
I’m simply fine with 53, or I wouldn’t be discussing it here in front of God and everybody (and because Facebook has outed me anyway). In fact, I’m so good with it, I feel compelled to share some hard-earned experience with my younger female readers since, interestingly enough, the many lessons of my youth somehow failed to include the things one can expect as one ages. My girlfriends have filed similar reports. I’ve developed a theory on this, too. I believe our Southern Mamas neglected the aging prep for their own future enjoyment, not unlike their other infamous curse, I mean wish: “I hope you grow up and have a child that acts just like you.” Southern Mamas can be a tad vengeful but you didn’t hear that from me.
By the way, I covered some of this in my last humor book, “Sue Ellen’s Girl Ain’t Fat, She Just Weighs Heavy”, which I thought was a fun title but my editor says it got shelved in the diet and self-improvement section (have mercy) so I don’t suppose y’all read it. For starters, girls, the hot you’ve barely heard discussed is neither warm nor brief. It’s the ring of fire Johnny Cash sang about. And your metabolism will go MIA somewhere in your thirties, bless your heart.
Now, brace yourselves. This last one is straight off the presses. It’s possible to find a gray hair growing out from the middle of your forehead. Your. Forehead. I’m sorry. Hopefully, someone will care enough to tell you before you’re seen in public with the thing hanging there long enough to curl. Not everyone is so fortunate.
Que sere sera and Happy Birthday to me.