It’s Official. I’m Sixty-Six

The blog title won’t change, but my age did. The big day began with a trip to the dermatologist. She froze the barnacles off my back, and that’s good because those stupid crustaceans itched. She told me their proper scientific name. I then told her their common moniker, “Damned Itchy Barnacles“. 

Then it was home again to open the three cards from Sweet Jimmy.  Always three. Always hidden in plain view. Following that, I spent a happy hour coloring a flat wooden bird, part of the gift from grandkids Deven and Mishri.

Jim pulled out his bird identification book to help me sort out just what kind of chick it was.  As you can see, the designation, while not in the book, is apparent. It’s a “Green-headed, Pink-breasted, Weeki Wachee Warbler.”

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Next, it was off to the primary care physician to go over bloodwork regarding my hormone levels. Good news!  My bloodwork is now routine. Three months ago I had the testosterone of a sixteen-year-old boy.  Having such high testosterone at my age–while great fun–is apparently not healthy.

A quiet afternoon was spent watching Jim do laundry. Yay for birthdays! He does laundry even on not-birthdays. But on not-birthdays, I offer to help. On my birthday?  Not a chance.

Lastly out to dinner. I chose the restaurant based on dessert. Recently we’d eaten there and consumed the most delicious gluten-free, warm-with-chocolate-chunks brownie, topped with vanilla ice cream.

As soon as we sat down, Jim flipped the menu to the dessert section. WHAT!? Wasn’t it listed? I had a moment when I thought I might cry. I nearly turned into six, rather than sixty-six.

Jim, good man that he is, tracked down waitstaff and found gluten-free chocolate cake was a special. Nope, it wasn’t the same as the brownie we’d had previously. However, it was warm, had a pipette of Jack Daniels squeezed into the center, and altogether satisfied this old girl.

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The little hole in the cake is where the booze pipette was inserted.

 

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This is how the bill is presented. Clever, huh?

Today is my second day of being sixty-six. So far it’s been lovely. Stevia-sweetened iced coffee, cottage cheese with almonds–my breakfast of choice which made a friend, Steve, gag when I described it–and a bit of reading.

The following clipping was yesterday’s “born today” blurb.  I liked it.  I wondered aloud if the paper simply prints the same words daily.  After all, who reads “born today” unless truly born on that particular day?  It seems Jim does.  He assured me it’s not a cookie cutter reading.

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Happy to learn my hard work and effort will pay off this year! Bodes well for upcoming Etsy shop.  I’ll learn more on Tuesday when my friend and I visit Psychic Valentina.  Don’t scoff.  Valentina knows my future and next week I will too. How fun is that?!  I’ll keep you posted.

 

 

Another reason being sixty-five is great

Being old is terrific because I no longer care what anyone thinks. Sometimes I go entire days...(drum-roll please) WITHOUT WEARING MAKEUP!  

Red heads have no natural color. Well….I guess we do. White on white. No color in our eyebrows.  No color in our lashes.  Our only visible hues are freckles and the hair on our heads.  If we didn’t have freckles and hair we wouldn’t be visible in a snowstorm.

I started wearing make-up in 10th grade.  I carried my cosmetics in a small, square, white case. It had a handle on top and a mirror in the lid.  I would sit at the kitchen table, morning light streaming in the back windows, and apply my eyes.  When I finished Mother would often say, “Now you should sign your chin.”

My high school boyfriend once asked, “Why bother wearing makeup?  You don’t need it at all”  The following date I met him at the door, bare-faced and smiling.  He took one long look and stated, “I was wrong.  You need make-up.” (have I mentioned he was a terrible first boyfriend?)

My sweet husband tells me all the time I’m pretty without it.  He’s lying and I love him for it.  I am sixty-five.  Even on my best day, wearing professionally applied war-paint, I’m passable at best.  At sixty-five passable is just fine.

Now that I’m old I sometimes skip putting on a face! That saves 10 minutes of my life for other stuff….like sitting on my ass and reading. Or coloring. Coloring is a delicious pastime.

If I added up all the time spent smearing on a face I’d have decades. I’d likely also have no husband.
Guys tend to like women with visible faces. However, once they are nabbed one can let themselves go!  Yay for being old.

Hey you people, start reading my blog. I know you’re out there.

As a reward for “following” me, perhaps I’ll post a photo of me without makeup! (NOT!)

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This is my drawer full of war paint.
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The oceans of brushes I have for applying war paint.  I probably only use about three, but they are old friends.  I give them a shampoo bath about once a month and they repay the favor by manifesting a face on my head (almost) every day.