Baggin’ It

Although I can still look in the mirror and see the girl I was, I have to do it without my glasses and look past a lot of wrinkles to find her.  And even though my husband tells me I look like I’m 45, I’m pretty sure that 45-year-olds don’t have grocery clerks and baggers ask them, “Ma’am, are you SURE you don’t want someone to help you out to your car with these groceries?” 

I must learn to just say no thanks and smile.  Stop saying, Unless you want to come home and put them away for me, thanks but no thanks.   (Not to worry. . .  won’t be saying THAT again ever. . . I’m sick of that Bridge to Nowhere line.)  My point is, I need to stop chattering to strangers.  It’s my mother’s voice coming out of my mouth.  You’d think I’d know better anyway. . . after all, I have severe baggerphobia.

 Years ago. . . when I WAS  20-something,  I had run to the neighborhood supermarket to pick up a few things.  I was putting the groceries in the car when a sudden downpour erupted.  I jumped into the car and  I was getting ready to close my car door when the bag boy. . . a kid who couldn’t have been more than 16 or 17. . . ran by, holding his jacket up over his head to keep from getting soaked.  I figured he was going home and had to live nearby if he was on foot, so I thought I’d offer to get him out of the rain.   I called out, “Hey, do you want a ride home?”  The jerk came over to the car, reached in and SQUEEZED MY KNEE (eeewwwww!!!)  and said with a leer, “No thanks.  No today!” 

Believe me, all I was offering the little turd was a ride.   I was so dumbstruck that I didn’t react fast enough to get the car in gear and run him down.  I sat there thinking, “that didn’t just happen!!!!”  but all I said was, EEEWWWWWWW!!!!!   Then I went home and took a bath–to wash away the feel of his nasty little paw on my leg!   It was, of course,  my last trip to that market.   

But back to this age thing.  As serious as it is. . . and yeah, I’m concerned about this getting older stuff. . . I can’t imagine getting a face lift or plastic surgery. Nobody is fooled, but the liftees look foolish!   I was in the dentist office today and Paula Deen was on the cover of a magazine.  Now if Paula had not overdosed on NoDoze,  she’s been having someone besides the butcher cut for her.  Her eyes looked large and positively unblinkable.  Her skin looked tautly tight.  Or  would that be tightly taut?   Whatever. Maybe it was photography magic, but it did look doctored.   Now, she may be subscribing to the wrinkle theory my mother swore by with great success:   when you see a wrinkle, quickly eat  a Snickers bar and fill it in.  But Paula’s eyes looked Lucy Ricardo-ish.  She may as well stock up on books to read at night  because I don’t believe she’s going to be able to close her eyelids in order to sleep.

And the movie actresses. . . ?!  Do they REALLY think they’re going to get a sweet young thing role with all of that collagen, Botox, peels, pulls, and putty?  Meg Ryan, I WEEP for you!  Mary Tyler Moore?  Oh puh-leeze!    And the guys!  Oh my gosh, if Kenny Rogers said down next to me I’d have to move.  He’s downright creepy  now!

Laura Bush looks a little tight these days, too.  Lord knows she’s got plenty to drink about, but I mean her face.  Somebody’s been tightening the screws there.   Her smile looks changed, which is too bad.  I always thought she had a cute smile.  Not beautiful, but cute.  Now it looks like John McCain has been giving her smile lessons.  And Cindy?  I won’t even go there.  Joe Biden’s wife Jill looks like someone you’d want to be friends with.  Pretty lady!  I don’t see any evidence of a facelift there.  Not so sure about her husband.   Michelle Obama?  She, of course, has the advantage of age–she’s lovely.  Sarah Palin looked better before she started talking.  Her mama forgot the “pretty is as pretty does” lesson.

My self-righteousness about plastic surgery doesn’t extend to breast surgery, however.  If you want to give me something for Christmas, a little  boobiotomy would be simply lovely, thank you.  I’d like to be able to wear shelf bras. . . and have them both stand on the same shelf. . . and said shelf NOT be my stomach.    I hate bras, as my family knows.  I unhook and pull them through my sleeves as soon as I walk in the house.  On occasion some wisebottom (like the one I’m married to) will hang it from the ceiling fan in an effort to break me of leaving them lying in improper places. 

If Santa does see it on my wish list and decide I’ve been a very good girl, it’ll be the 1960’s all over again and I’m burnin’ my bras.  But you baggers out there are on notice:  if you put a hand on me, you’d  better be able to run faster than a Volvo.


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