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Aging Sucks


I have removed all reflective surfaces in my house, drawn the shades against the sunlight, and use only low-wattage bulbs. I buy skin lotions by the vat (Fed-Ex delivers!) and refuse to go outside during peak ultraviolet hours. I wear only loose, dark-colored clothes, long sleeves (even in summer), and high necklines.

I foster a symbiotic relationship with my internist and dentist, contemplating in secret over intimate and, heretofore, chaste body parts (especially commiserating over my blood count and eroding incisors). I have a love-hate relationship with elastic – love how it makes clothes easier to slip on and off, especially in emergencies; hate how my skin and muscles seem to be losing it by the nanosecond (nothing “perks” anymore!).

No, I am not a vampire.

I am a Boomer and I am aging, and like Dylan Thomas once advised, I am not going gently into this phase of my life.

My lenses are getting thicker along with my waist and behind. My skin is thinning along with my hair and temper. My once sexy voice has slowed to a slower RPM and there is distinct catch in my cadence.

Instead of “cute,” people dare to call me “spry;" instead of "hot," men call me "cute."

The worst part of all of this, I have what I call the "Betty White Curse" which is a lot worse than anything Dracula could have bestowed on his victims. On any given day and any given time, I am usually the oldest person around.
 (Isn't she cute?  Here, let me get the door for you.)

This isn't exactly how I wanted to end my time on earth.  Vampires get more respect.









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