I'm 45 bitches!

If you are an obviously deranged single man and you want to troll for chicks at a concert, by all means pick me. Lottery!

I mean, of course I'm sitting there holding my Johnny's hand and you are ever so clever, you picked me!  I mean the Greek sailor's hat and trench coat alone say come hither. Good call pretending to smack into me to start up the apology conversation. I almost divorced right then and there and left with you, really, truly. I must give you credit for actually looking into my eyes on the third go around the room as you were zeroing in closer - I must have something wrong with my aforementioned eyes since you look like you needed your Mommy after gazing into them.

Actually, getting the "Hey baby how you doin'?" at 45 is unexpected, more rare now and delightful. Except, sometimes I want to pull the boy by the ear and tell them I am old enough to...know when to shut up!

The sliding scale of what external beauty is slides to a halt somehow when the boobs sag. And the best compliment we can come up with is "She looks young/great for her age".  Hilarious, because I do!

I look frumpy at times. When I wave my arms, I feel definite jiggling. My worry forehead wrinkles have made babies and I need a little more giddy up in my wagon go area. This body gets me places without too much of a fuss, it's healthy and kind to me so I feed it with care, move it a bit and dab on some lipstick because you never know when Greek hats and trench coats will come back in style and give you the "Hey baby how you doin'?"

I'm 45, and I am awesome!  (for my age).

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