Friday, May 6, 2011

Tweezers, Clairol and Bras! Oh My!

There is no gentle, slippery, flowery, tingly way to say this - so I will just tell you. Bad things will happen to you when you turn 40. Especially if you happen to be on Team Girly Bits. If you happen to be in the Stick club- well don't get all smuggy just yet. The shit ton of stuff that happens to us at least has creams, tweezers, Clairol and Wonder Bras to correct it. Our 40 comes with white out. Your balls are going to drop to your ankles. Pretty sure I haven't seen any magic products being pushed on late night t.v. to help you out with that issue.

I am personally in high freak out mode. I don't know why because 40 is the new 30- and I really liked 30. I should just be skipping along thinking I get to be 30 again, hoorays! Right? No. Whoever started the cruel rumor that 40 is the new 30 is a lying son of a bitch that I would like to stab in the head with my stilettos while I can still wear them. For example, when I turned 30, I finally came to terms that I have a curvy figure and learned to love it. Love. It. What's not to like about having a chest that Pamela Anderson paid thousands for...mine was free, natural and traffic stopping. This decade the girls are still there- but they sorta need a shelf to sit on. Which is fine because I can buy an awesome shiny pink plunging cleavage shelf at Victoria's Secret.  I didn't have to work out at 30 either. And I had nice arms. Now, my arms are going South and everything else is playing follow the leader. My sister says the flab under your arms just tells everyone what direction the rest of you is falling. Goody.

"Happy fourtieth, Cat. I'll take the muscle tone in your upper arms, the girlish timbre in your voice,
your amazing tolerance for caffeine and your ability to digest french fries.
The rest of you can stay."
I also am having a hard time remembering things and I feel all wonky sometimes. I don't forget big stuff. I can still find my way home without the DPS having to flash a Silver Alert with my license plate number on giant signs along the interstate asking every commuting zombie in rush hour to look out for me and call 911 if I happen to crash into them. It's small stuff- like walking into a room and having no idea what I went in there for. This is especially bad at work. I have walked into conference rooms only to become painfully aware that I have no idea what the meeting is about and can't figure out why everyone is looking at me with crazy eyes. That's when this internal dialogue flashes through my head in a second:  "What? Do I have chocolate on my shirt. Shit- is my boob out and now it looks like I have three boobs? Do I have a booger? I swear that noise was my shoe and I didn't just drop a cabbage bomb in here. Is he looking at my boobies? Fucking pervert- I always hated that guy. You wish ass munch. You. Wish."....oh holy shit snacks, I think this is the wrong fucking room. My bad. Now I have to trot my pissed off self back to my desk to figure out where the hell I am supposed to be. And try to remember write it down this time.

Four fuckity zero is gonna be a shitastic year!

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