...and she is me.
I have become that which I dreaded in my youth. Egad.
My perfume these days is Banalag liniment. For those of you who are unfamiliar with its scent, think Ben Gay, or Icy Hot.
I ask you, who of the male species could resist???
My shoes are the ever-so-attractive flat and wide variety, set off with a spicy pair of orthopedic insoles. Move over, 5-inch heels! Granny's got her groove on!
I haven't worn a dress since...I can't remember the last time I wore a dress. Another sign of the times - memory loss. All of the dresses I used to wear are in my closet with dust on the shoulders. Why wash what you don't wear?
My hair is many-colored, thanks to my hairdresser. If it were up to me, it would be Medium Ash Brown, straight out of the bottle. Either that, or Medium Ash Brown on the ends and salt-and-pepper closer to what few brain cells still abide in my head.
Yesterday I noticed a wrinkle under my nose. Fat people like me don't wrinkle easily, so it must have taken a mighty act of God for this one to come through. That tells you how old I am.
I can't sit in one position very long because I freeze that way. It's just like when you used to make a face at your mother and she'd say, "Don't do that! Your face could freeze that way!" Only now it's my knees and ankles and hips and various other uncooperative joints that are too old to move. Too bad they don't make oil for joints like the Tin Man had in The Wizard of Oz.
Music my teenagers play is too loud. Yes, that's a sure sign I'm old. But I take comfort in the fact that Hubster is older than I am. I can tell because he turns up the sound on the television...you guessed it...too loud.
I can't win.