I'm doing major cleaning of the house today, which means I left the house in the exact condition that every What-Not-To-Wear-French-Girls-Don't-Wear-Gym-Shorts-Book-And/Or-Reality-Show tells you not to: ponytail, baseball cap, no makeup, bad t-shirt, shorts, Ugg sandals. Oh, I was quite a sight. My groceries from Market Fresh included a bottle of wine because, really, all this cleaning makes me the kind of cranky that only wine can undo, and the lovely young woman checking me out rang up the bottle of wine, then rang up a few more items, then paused, then asked to see my ID. In the condition I was in I was happy to hand it over. (I really should keep an over-sized-donation-to-a-charity-check copy of my driver's license in my car for just such situations because I am a LONG way from needing to be carded.) "Aren't you nice!" I said. "Well..." she shrugged.
Then she gasped.
It was an actual, audible gasp.
"You don't look THAT old!"
"Oh, thanks," I said.
"No, really," she went on. "I never would have guessed you were even close to THAT old!"
Honey, you made me feel so good that I'm going to forgive your many "THAT olds." I'm sure the number seems frightening to you but let me warn you that it was just yesterday that I was in my 20's and feeling invincible and pretty darn sure that I would never be THAT old. Your time is a-coming.
Faster than you think.
Day seven. TRAGEDY STRIKES.
7 hours ago