Age Before Beauty - Who Came Up with That?

Just how old am I anyway? I promise you, I don't know the answer to that question half of the time that it is asked. Why you ask. Because, on my fortieth birthday, I made a vow to myself, to never, ever calculate, nor acknowledge my chronological age again. Now, sometimes, this causes me problems, like when the doctor says, how old are you and I, look with a completely blank stare and say, I think, well, uh, let me think about it. No, I'm not crazy, I just figure, if I don't acknowledge the number, I cannot do what I am refusing to do. What am  I refusing to do you ask? I am refusing to get old. I just cannot.

Aging has undoubtedly got to be the scariest process I can imagine. The control freak in me is determined to control this process. Everywhere I look, I am reminded that for some reason, I am supposed to be aging, gracefully, nonetheless. I think I own or have tried every anti-aging product that the industry has to offer. I have pealed, steamed, wrapped, you name it. I will not be overtaken by the hands of time, or sands in the hourglass.

Speaking of the hourglass. Do you know what has to happen to maintain that figure that used to be so easily maintained? I remember the freshmen 15. But come on now, must I blow air kisses and eat celery sticks in order to maintain my curves. And now, who knows the name of a good surgeon? I need one. Yes indeed, as my granny would say, I need a little work. There's no shame in my game, nothing a little botox can't fix, a little lift and a little tuck. You see, keep on living and gravity is no ones friend. Mind you, sit-ups and leg lifts, they help, but, the skill of a good surgeon can speed things up just a bit. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and I do not know who is looking back at me. Surely, that person is someone else, what's that, is that a gray hair? Wait, I see a little line underneath my eye. Oh Dear Lord, but wait, "Black don't crack" isn't that how it goes.

Oh, what to wear? I am a self proclaimed fashionista. I love all things fashion. However, at whatever age I am now, I find it difficult to decide what to wear. You see, I tend to have a fascination with clothing in the Juniors section, call me Betsey Johnson. Or, the fashion I like may be a little on the pricey side and thus, not fit to spend time on the factory floor. So, what to wear, what to wear? If I wear the ripped up jeans, that will surely point to me trying to return to my youth. If, I wear the Ralph Lauren blouse with the tailored slacks and my Prada shoes, that's probably overkill. Maybe, Gap or Old Navy, I'll go there, shop in the junior's section and then run over to the adult fitting room, yeah, that's what I usually do! I have actually pretended to be shopping for my daughter and then ran over to the Women's fiting room.  I know, pitiful, just pitiful. 

My daughters just informed me that I am not allowed to have plastic surgery! Did I tell you I borrowed a sports bra from my 11 year old? In their complimentary way, they said, "Mom, you don't look too old." By the way, were t.v. shows in color when you were a kid?