Sixty and Counting

I turned 60 recently and I'm still trying to grasp on to the fact that I really am that old. Here's a photo I took of myself when I was 60 and a day.

I hear the neck is the first thing to go and the memory soon follows, along with the boobies. I've long said, "My body is going South for the winter of my life," years before the Maxine cartoon character ever latched on to MY catch phrase.

People tell me I look younger than my years, and that may be true, because when I compare photos of my mother and me at the same age, there is no comparison. Women of my generation really do look younger than our mothers did.

Thanks to L'Oreal, I look younger, but I find myself longing for one of those Lifestyle lifts, which I would spring for if I had the cash. If I did have money, perhaps I might spring for a blepharoplasty to perk up my sagging eyelids and maybe some Botox to get rid of the nasty "11s" between my eyebrows. Hell, let's throw in some Restylane, too, while I'm dreaming and fill in those on my cheeks.

Lack of money aside, when I see photos of people who have had "work" done, that is when I wake up. I don't want to be among those with Frozen Face Syndrome. Neither do I want to look like Kenny Rogers.

No thank you!

Besides, I rationalize I can't look all that bad, because a real-life Bobcat, thirteen years my junior, recently captured the heart of this Cougar and we were married on September 30.

So I can't complain. I may have a few wrinkles, droops, and chronic health issues, but I also have a dashing young husband to keep me young at heart.

Nope. I can't complain at all.