(WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS MATH)
So, this should come as no shock to any of you, but I’m over 40. I’m a little ways over 40.
Oh hell. Who am I kidding? I’m 47
…and 2 months. I would love to give you my age in months just like they do with children under the age of 2, but I’m gonna need a calculator and my readers. Fortunately (or maybe not), neither of these is to be had at the moment. I’m actually typing this post without corrected vision, so don’t be surprised if I start slur-typing a bit and launch into a modified Gettysburg Address.
“For decades nd 7 year ago, my foundling mother brought fourth MEeeeEeeee.”
Damn. I’d better go find my readers.
I went out shopping a few days ago with my son’s girlfriend of 4 and a half years – Alyssa. Oh, and btw, that’s equivalent to 54 months (I always forget that my iPhone has that calculator function).
Alyssa is a DOLL, an absolute “mini-me”. At a mere 204 months of age, Alyssa knows her fashion and she’s not afraid to wear it. And to assist her in spending gift cards from her recent graduation, we did the Pretty Woman thing. We strode into our local Nordstrom to set up shop in a dressing room with about 75 items selected by three spritely 20 year old …er, 240-month-old sales gals who followed our every move and gushed complements at every turn. This spree was supposed to be for Alyssa, but these girls grabbed opportunity. They zoomed right in on the one who was obviously beyond the point of repaying any residual student loan debt. That age being, oh roughly 360 months and over. In other words, that being ME.
And sucker that I am for any fashion that zaps a few hundred months from my age and makes my ass look good, I couldn’t resist that Nordstrom hard sell. I ended up with my own dressing room of 75 items. Holy hook in the mouth, Batman. Reel me in. I won’t resist.
Thus, on this Independence Day, I sit here blogging in a pair of 150 dollar Joe’s denim shorts that adequately junk up my trunk without totally looking desperate. My ass doesn’t look a day over 420 months.
But I spent a utility bill on a pair of shorts. And while I seriously won’t lose my electricity over this, I am quaintly curious at the following hypothetical:
Air-conditioning in July or the most awesome shorts EV-AH?
The AC issue is of major importance, for it is well-documented in the annals of midlife-ary that hot flashes can be as numerous and unpredictable as 144-month-olds at a one-hour delayed Justin Beiber concert. And I have had my fair share that have brushed aside scientific reasoning. Standing in a sub-zero freezer with my tongue stuck to a metal shelf, I’ll hot flash. Stationed at the north pole, in nothing but a thong with ice cubes shoved up my nostrils, I WILL HOT FLASH. Remove all flammables within a 10 mile radius. I can hot flash a few degrees shy of a welding torch.
Well, that officially decides it. Advantage: AC. Guess I’ll be making a return at Nordstrom this weekend.
On second thought, let’s be COMPLETELY honest. My ass looks SO good, I may never remove these Joe’s again.
Except, of course, to mop sweat from my 566-month-old brow.