Carolyn–my blog mate, a friend I adore, someone to whom I frequently turn for comfort, advice or helluva belly laugh–is, I am sorry to say, in a pact with the devil. Either that, or she’s been BOTOXING behind my back. I think we can all agree that’s just as bad.
The woman won’t wrinkle. It’s not normal. You could ice skate on her cheek. When she frowns, she gets this cute little pucker between her brows, and when she’ stops frowning the pucker goes away. If I get even a tiny bit irritated in the morning, my forehead looks like scratch paper for Rand McNally the rest of the day.
So what’s up with Carolyn?
It could be that she’s holding out on me. Juicing Goji berries or injecting the urine of pregnant camels. But I think she’d tell me that eventually. No, I have a theory. Wait for it….
The day you are officially in menopause, you begin to age in dog years.
I’m sorry; I think it’s true. Many blogs ago, I mentioned that in menopause you get a new face every day, but it’s never the one you want. Carolyn hasn’t been in menopause long enough to have truly experienced this phenomenon. She may be three years older than I am chronologically speaking, but that doesn’t count. Because I have been in menopause longer. My birth certificate claims I’m pushing forty-nine, but I’ve been in menopause four years. These last four years are like seven years each, so, really, my face is seventy-seven.
This is so cool! Yesterday, I watched the lipstick climb to my nostrils in no time flat and thought, “Wendy, you’re not aging well.” Then I thought about Carolyn, hit on the Menopause/Dog Years theory, and now I feel great.
Carolyn looks super at fifty-two. And I am rockin’ seventy-seven.
