Egg salad.
Pretty much the only thing I can eat right now, seeing as I’m sick with the streptococcal bronchaplague of 2015, rendering my throat something akin to steak meeting fiberglass. And not in the good way.
Plus, as of yesterday, I’m 40. Fuck. 40, man. I distinctly remember celebrating my Dad’s 27th birthday (I was 6, for those following along at home) and thinking, “Shit. That’s OLD.” Yes, I spoke like a tiny punk, even in 1st grade. My body isn’t the same shape it was 20 years ago. It has a shape, sure. Whereas I used to wear fancy, tight pants, now I more resemble Spongebob Squ…do I even really need to finish the joke? I’m so lazy, I can’t even follow through on true, self-deprecation. *sad trombone*
At the same time, FUCK YEAH, I’m 40! Graduating out of my 30’s means so many great things, like…never again apologizing for a Spanx free outing. My once obnoxious demeanor suddenly classified as “sassy”. Eye cream samples, FOR DAYS. (Because, apparently, upon entering an upscale purveyor of cosmetics, as a woman bearing wrinkles and lines and dark circles, sales peeps of said establishments bestow upon you every…single…emlusion ever made to remove said age markings, and they do it so sweetly, with their perfectly arched brows, and flawless foundation. Oh, wait, you’re not even wearing any makeup. Whatever, Anya, the Ulta Beauty Brow Bar manager. I do love that you taught me some shit about concealer, though. Thanks for that!) Also, massive cleavage that makes everyone in the room uncomfortable, except, for once in my life, me!
40? So far, so good.
