"Cosmetics is a boon to every woman, but a girl's best friend is still a nearsighted man." ~Yoko Ono
Valentine's Day has passed, but I am considering therapy for PTSD - Post Traumatic Shopping Disorder - buying lingerie for Valentine's Day.
I am not afflicted with Jello jiggles and wiggles, but I sense my body's equater is creeping closer to hipline? Everything is shifting to my southern hemisphere. Factor in my pathetic attempt for an occasional hot flash, (a warm fuzzy for me), and I am headed for catostrophic menopausal global warming, not setting the sheets on fire.
Thinking candle light will be good; I know dark is better. I look at the pink or red silky scraps of black-trimmed lace and inwardly moan. I want to appear as 'to be had', not a 'has been.'
Suddenly, I am engulfed by a glowing epiphany of my middle-aged experience, not to be confused with a warm fuzzy. Making a few ingenous purchases, I smile at the checkout, confidently smug at my cleverness. A thought crosses my mind, though. Considering the impending surge of baby-boomers, Victoria's Secret needs to implement a Cougar line of black support fishnet stockings and lacey, racey flannel.
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