“On the Side” a.k.a. High-Maintenance

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The 1989 hit movie When Harry Met Sally is a beloved favorite for men and women alike. It was then and remains today a spot-on, hilarious narration of the intricacies of the male/female romantic relationship.

A couple of weeks ago while I was folding some laundry, it came on the TV and of course, for probably the 18th time… I watched it. And once again, for probably the 18th time… I laughed. Only this time I laughed at something I’d never really noticed before, but has since become a regular source of conversation and comedy in my own relationship.

Early in our relationship, my boyfriend and I watched this movie together. One night, months later, when we went out for dinner he called me “Sally Albright” after I finished placing my order.

At first I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about—Sally Albright. Sally Albright? First of all, WHO is Sally Albright and WHY exactly, did he think that I was SHE? Then he reminded me of the following scene from the movie when Sally Albright and Harry Burns sit down to eat at a diner for the very first time:

Sally: I’d like the chef salad please with oil and vinegar on the side, and the apple pie a la mode. 

Waitress: Chef and apple a la mode. 

Sally: But I’d like the pie heated, and I don’t want the ice cream on top. I want it on the side, and I’d like strawberry instead of vanilla if you have it. If not, then no ice cream, just whipped cream, but only if it’s real. If it’s out of the can, then nothing. 

Waitress: Not even the pie? 

Sally: No, just the pie, but then not heated.

OK. So maybe Sally was a bit, shall we say, particular about how she wanted her meal… but come on, she’s paying for it. But what I call “particular,” most men call “high maintenance.” And such was the case with Harry / my boyfriend.

Of course, what I want to know is: What is wrong with wanting things “on the side?” Salad dressing on the side… sour cream on the side… guacamole on the side… extra avocado slices for your sandwich on the side… extra limes wedges for your margarita on the side… an extra shot of tequila for that same margarita on the side? Since when did asking for anything “on the side” turn into being “high-maintenance”? To answer this question, I’ll refer to a scene from later on in the movie:

Harry: There are two kinds of women: high maintenance and low maintenance. 

Sally Albright: Which one am I? 

Harry: You’re the worst kind; you’re high maintenance but you think you’re low maintenance. 

Sally Albright: I don’t see that. 

Harry: You don’t see that? Waiter, I’ll begin with a house salad, but I don’t want the regular dressing. I’ll have the balsamic vinegar and oil, but on the side. And then the salmon with the mustard sauce, but I want the mustard sauce on the side. “On the side” is a very big thing for you. 

Sally Albright: Well, I just want it the way I want it. 

Harry: I know… high maintenance. 

And there it is. The male take on “On the side.” But I still don’t see the problem here. This is, after all America, and if we CAN have things “on the side,” then why are we considered “high-maintenance” just because we ask for it?

There are things that I prefer a certain way… and if, by requesting them, I am not placing anyone in harm’s way… then I just don’t see the problem. For example:

  1. I like to sleep with four, fluffy, down pillows. But only at night. During a nap, I prefer ONE down pillow and a body pillow.
  2. I like to wrap up in soft, fluffy blankets and it doesn’t matter where or from whom I have to steal them.
  3. I like so much ice in my drinks that with every sip I get the sensation of licking a glacier.
  4. I’ll only drink the orange juice that has NO pulp in it (served over ice).
  5. Individual foods on my plate must NOT touch one another. Unless it is Mexican food. And I prefer to eat one food at a time around the plate… usually in a clockwise direction.
  6. I feel it is perfectly appropriate to call the front desk and register a complaint if my hotel room does not look exactly like the one on the website.
  7. I feel it is equally appropriate to request that compensation be made for the aforementioned false advertising. And that said restitution ought to be delivered in the form of additional fluffy, down pillows.
  8. I place all of the items on my desk at 90 or 45-degree angles and specific items must be parallel or perpendicular to one another or I cannot get any work done.
  9. I must arrange my highlighter pens according to the colors of the rainbow.
  10. I like all of my picture frames to be turned at exactly the same angle on the desk / shelf / table / dresser / entertainment center… and just because I can immediately, upon entering the room, determine that one of them is a degree or two off and I cannot sit down or relax until I fix it…

    Do these things make me high-maintenance?

Sally Albright. It is a nickname that my bf still calls me to this day. And although I have absolutely NO idea why… What else can I say?

I just want it the way I want it.

If I Could Tell Her

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It is without a doubt, my favorite time of day. The house is dark save for the soft light pouring from the lamp on my nightstand. I’ve put to bed all of the concerns of the hours leading up to this one and I’ve curled up with just a pen and a clean, white page in my leather-bound journal. I scribble the date at the top of the page and begin to write. All is silent and still. These minutes belong only to me.

I write about anything and everything from the mundane events of ordinary life and noteworthy events to frustrations, disappointments, successes and failures. And naturally, there is the occasional, profanity-laced rant. The writing is cathartic. But sometimes just the feel of the soft leather book in my hands and the sound of the spine crackling as I pry it open, is a reward in and of itself.

On one particular evening while venting about a personal frustration, I looked up from my journal and out into the hallway. My gaze fell upon a single photograph hanging among many. It is a picture of a young girl, about 4 or 5 years old, wearing a little red sweatshirt with the hood up, tied tight. She is perched on a large stone step with her chin buried in the crook of her tiny arm, looking as though she’s carrying the weight of the world on her small shoulders. She is clearly contemplating something, though I know not what.

I’ve walked by this photo a thousand times, but on this particular night, I was struck by an overwhelming compulsion. I wanted desperately in that moment to run to her, scoop her baby face into my 36-year-old hands and tell her so many things! No, I have not lost my mind. I know that this was never a viable option. But so powerful was my urge to do this impossible thing that I imagined what the encounter might look like…

I would tell her not to be in such a hurry to grow up and to think before she speaks. I would caution her not to be so hard on herself as she grows older and to never waste precious tears on stupid boys who’ll break her heart and awful girls who’ll act like her friends when they are anything but. I would tell her that there are amazing things out there! So many places to see, experiences to enjoy, moments to relish and victories she’ll never dream possible.

There will be times of tremendous joy, celebration and heart-stopping laughter. And times when the pain will be SO sharp, she’ll truly believe that she cannot go on. She’ll love with her whole heart and grieve when the same love disappoints. That oftentimes with incredible discovery can come unimaginable loss. Yet I would also impart to her that strength can be found in the smiles of strangers and on the big, broad shoulders of true friends… and that sometimes salvation will be found when and where she least expects it. I’d share with her the valuable secrets that she will one day stand on top of mountains and delve into the depths of the ocean. I would tell her that Life is really just one giant, scary, lovely, messy adventure and that she shouldn’t waste one single breath of it thinking she’s not enough.

But then again, perhaps I wouldn’t say anything to her at all. She will find out entirely on her own… everything in its time… and it will make her the person that I see in the mirror every day.

Nyquil: Makes Colds (and Cash) Disappear

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It’s quite a racket really. A multi-billion dollar industry feeding off one of our most basic of needs… the need to feel better. Fast. Proctor and Gamble, Johnson and Johnson, Bayer, Halls and Kleenex (just to name a few) have us right where they want us.

Standing in the cold and flu aisle at Rite-Aid last night my head was spinning. Perhaps it was the sinus pressure or just a good buzz from the expired Dayquil I had consumed hours earlier. But I actually suspect that I felt faint due to the ginormous, yellow price tags beneath all of the items I needed to purchase in order to feel relatively human again.

$10 for a 4-ounce jar of Vicks Vapor Rub?  Yeah, we here at Rite-Aid think that’s a fair price. $7.99 for 12 sore throat lozenges (with magical healing vapors, don’t forget)… Halls believes thats reasonable. $16 for a combined package of Dayquil and Nyquil (the-nightime-sniffling-sneezing-coughing-aching-best-sleep-you-ever-got-with-a-cold) cold medicine—the mere 6-day supply… Proctor and Gamble considers that two-for-one deal a real bargain! And you know what? Of course they can charge whatever the hell they want to because by the time we’re actually standing IN THE AISLE of the store, our judgement has already been severely impaired by our insufferable symptoms.

So basically the small blue basket hanging on my arm that is barely one-third of the way full is worth my entire paycheck. Hmmmm… how badly do I want to feel better? If I don’t get some relief, I won’t sleep. If I don’t sleep, I won’t do a good job at work. If I don’t do a good job at work, I’ll lose my job… leaving me broke and penniless and unable to purchase this outrageously-overpriced shit in the first place. It truly IS a dilemma.

I settle on a compromise of buying ALL generic and only the necessities. I selectively choose to address the ability to breathe, the ability to swallow without the sensation of downing shards of broken glass, and some assistance with sleep. Oh and some assurance that I won’t fly into a sneezing fit during the next staff meeting and risk being mistaken for an epileptic in the midst of a gran mal seizure.

Let’s face it, when it’s all said and done and the 10 days that the “common cold” takes to “run its course” are up… I am left with the remains of these costly items. They’ll wind up in a box or on a shelf or tucked waaaaaay in the back of a cabinet somewhere. They’ll join the ranks among the other useless, dried-up, crusty members of my ever-growing collection of expired jars, tubes, bottles, blister packs and baggies that are cluttering up random corners of my home because for reasons beyond my comprehension, I refuse to throw them away.

And this small fortune will sit there—gathering dust—until A. I move. Or B. I need to make room for another year’s cache of cold remedies. Or C. I am hospitalized for consuming some antihistamines that were around during the Clinton administration.

The Art of Estimation a.k.a. Creative Fabrication

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I have decided that I am now in my “mid-thirties.” That IS how old I am these days. Please note that there is no longer a number attached as I’ve recently decided to boycott the practice of citing exact numbers for things… this includes, but is not limited to: height, weight, age, salary, money spent on a particular item, Oreos eaten in a single sitting and the number of alcoholic beverages consumed on any given weekend.

Estimations and approximations are much more mysterious anyway—thus more interesting. Not to mention they are much easier to remember which is a VERY good thing since aging seems to adversely affect our ability to accurately recall information.

Estimating and approximating are also handy little skills when it comes to interpersonal communications that involve delivering the kind of information that is not necessarily true, but that we know someone WANTS to hear. An example of this would be:

–      RANDOM PERSON I JUST MET:  How old are you?

–      ME: Mid-thirties

–      RANDOM PERSON I JUST MET: How old do you think I am?

(See I think this person is at least 55, but I know that they would much rather be thought of as 10 years younger than they actually ARE, so the Art of Estimation comes into play)

–      ME: Oh… I would guess you to be in your mid-forties.

–      SHOCKED AND FLATTERED RANDOM PERSON I JUST MET: Really!?!? WOW! Thank you! I’m actually 57.

And I’ve just made this person’s day. All because I practiced the Art of Estimation and Approximation. The artistic part is knowing how much one can actually get away with. If you pad the numbers too much, your efforts will be seen as transparent. No more than an attempt at false flattery… and Random Person will dislike you for it. This principle is also extremely effective on people you feel intimidated by or people who feel intimidated by you.

A word of caution: Utilizing this form of communication on family members, loved ones or co-workers (in other words, those who know you best) can be extremely dangerous if demonstrated carelessly. As with anything worth doing, it is worth doing WELL. Goodestimating a.k.a creative fabrication or the effective glossing-over of details takes practice. But don’t be shy! Get out there, stand up straight, flash your most genuine smile and try it out on a few unsuspecting strangers first while you hone your craft.

The Life I Was Meant to Lead?

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Every morning after hitting the snooze button for probably the sixth time, I crawl out of bed and curse the morning. Staring in the mirror at the matching set of luggage beneath my eyes and the pillow marks etched deeply into my face, it becomes increasingly clear to me… This is not the life I was meant to lead.

I believe with every fiber of my being that I was meant to be rich and pampered. This is not a new concept for me. In the early years I merely thought that I would enjoy living that way.Who wouldn’t? However, things grew more serious as I became cognizant of a subtle but consistent migration toward behaviors and attitudes supporting this “I deserve to be pampered” way of life. And now… NOW it has become a full-on revelation that this is WHO I AM and I shouldn’t fight it any longer.

You see I am discovering as I get older, that there are very few things that I actually care to do for myself. Why can’t someone else do my laundry, iron my clothes, change my sheets, make my bed, empty my dishwasher, clean my house, wash and wax my car (no, make that detail my car), do my grocery shopping, cook for me, sort my mail, pay my bills and clean up after the cat when he hacks up a hairball on my freshly steam-cleaned-by-somebody-else white rug?

And while we’re on the subject of doing things vs. NOT doing things… Why must I work? I mean at all? Why can’t money just appear in my bank account? Why can’t I spend my days sleeping until the Lord wakes me, reading and watching television all the while becoming a student of Suze, The Doctors, Oprah, Chelsey, Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha—learning how to lead my very best, fiscally-responsible, healthy, witty, well-balanced, fabulously-accessorized life? Why can’t I spend my days shoe shopping in the farthest-reaching corners of the globe? I mean seriously, I really FEEL it in my bones that this is the life that I was intended, no make that designed to live.

Which then begs the question: If this truly is WHO I am… yet there is still no magical trust fund with my name on it… What in the hell am I supposed to do about it? As long as I continue to do my own laundry, ironing, dishes, etc. I will feel like I am living a lie.

I suppose I shouldn’t completely lose hope. They say that knowing is half the battle. And if that’s true… then I guess I’m at least halfway there.

Taste the Rainbow

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Although only 36, my daily needs for pharmaceutical assistance seems to be growing exponentially. Granted, it is largely due to the psychotic, indecisive weather we’ve been having lately, but still the collection seems to grow by the day.

In an effort to shave valuable seconds off of my usual morning rush-around routine, I have begun setting out this plethora of daily meds the night before. I open each impenetrable child (AND adult) proof bottle and count out the colorful pills that will assist me on the next day’s journey.

Sitting in the bottom of my cereal bowl, they strongly resemble a handful of Skittles. They exist in a myriad of shapes and colors and look rather enticing as though they might actually be sort of yummy…

  • The red one bolsters my immune system, gives me energy and helps to naturally regulate my central nervous system.
  • The pink one keeps my eyes from watering, nose from running and throat from itching.
  • The orange one enables me to breathe with my mouth closed.
  • The peach one calms me down and takes me to my “happy place” whenever I choose to go.
  • The yellow one works to eradicate the infection that has taken up residence in my sinuses and inner ear.
  • The green one acts as an herbal crutch that claims to stave off the troubles of an immune system crippled by the violently swinging weather patterns this time of year.(The jury is still out on whether or not this one even works.)
  • The blue one allows me to walk amongst the living relatively pain-free.
  • And the purple one… well that one is for everyone who comes within 50 feet of me. It pretty much protects them from my misguided wrath, inappropriate emotional outbursts and/or tears.

Needless to say, I am looking forward to Mother Nature making up her damn mind about whether it is summer or still spring or winter or what-the-hell-ever . But until then, I’ll fill up a glass of water each morning and continue to taste the rainbow. Trust me, it really is best for all of us.

The Post-Vacation Funk

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post vacay funkI just returned from a glorious, much-needed, 8-day vacay up and down the New England coast with my man… and yes, it was A-MAZ-ING. However… it is now official. I am in the midst of a full-fledged, hard-core, post-vacation funk. And I am here to tell you that the fabled funk is very real and I would argue that it is an inevitable occurrence in the life of any vacationer.

All the fun you’ve been planning for, saving for and laid awake with great night-before-Christmas anticipation for … is over. The photos are now in your camera instead of the brochure and the t-shirt is hanging in the closet.

Mind you, the funk does not occur overnight. Rather it seeps into your conscience slowly and before you know it you are completely mired in it. Suddenly you find yourself knee-deep in the reality that you are neither: A. Independently wealthy, or B. Free from the obscenity that is Responsibility … with a capital “R.”

When you first arrive home—a weary traveler surrounded by the familiar sights, scents and sounds of your “stuff”—you can’t help but experience Dorothy’s “There’s No Place Like Home”  feeling and sleeping in your own bed (on the memory foam that still remembers you) is blissful.

The next day comes and whether at home or the office, it is a flurry of activity. You’re answering emails, returning calls and taking care of household chores with that rested, happy glow that only a true getaway can provide. You’re still sportin’ the chilled attitude that comes from spending 7 days in flip-flops and you are recounting the details of your adventure to anyone who will listen. People expect that you will not exactly be “at the top of your game” since your head is most likely still in the clouds (or on the beach, or in the mountains, or by the pool, or at that really cool bar you found) and minor errors and gaffs are swiftly forgiven.

Day three brings with it the bi!@# that is reality. The alarm sounds for the second time since you’ve been back and you suddenly remember that this was why you went on vacation in the first place … to escape that d@mn alarm and the daily grind that follows it.

Day four is the same as the third only worse. The alarm clock hits you like a punch in the face reminding you that yesterday was not a fluke or a joke or a drill or even a bad dream. YOU. ARE. NOW. HOME. And it is only Wednesday. This is when you begin to play a sadistic little game with yourself that I like to call: “Where Were You Exactly One Week Ago Today?” And a word to the wise about playing this game: The non-vacation version of you will always wind up the loser.

By the way… exactly ONE week ago today… I was still in bed… but whatever. I’m not playing.

By day five you understand your fate, but you do not necessarily like it. Anger builds. You can’t stop playing the “Where Were You Exactly One Week Ago Today?” game every time you open the empty refrigerator, notice a heaping pile of laundry, encounter a pair of sad and sandy flip-flops lying lifeless on the floor or walk past the growing stacks of mail and dwindling supply of saltwater taffy on your dining room table.

It is at this point that you begin to entertain wild imaginings about how you might achieve the life of a full-time vacationer. What if I just disappeared?  What might the consequences of that be?  How much DO they pay those people who change sheets and fold towels at all those charming, little B&B’s? Is it hard to learn how to make saltwater taffy like the guy in the window at that quaint candy shop on the pier? Is it too late to get a degree in Recreation or Hospitality and Tourism Management? Am I too old to become a deck hand?

They say that there are five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and finally Acceptance. They are not necessarily experienced in order. The bereaved might vacillate between the five for several weeks or months languishing for a time at one stage or another. So far I think I have experienced all of them and it has yet to be one week.

Hopefully by the time I unwrap and consume the last piece of taffy, I will have quietly accepted my life just the way it is. It’s either that or you will likely find me behind a glass storefront in a hairnet and white gloves, pulling taffy for tourists.

The Finger

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I got the finger from an 80 year old woman on my way to work this morning. No… not the finger you’re thinking of. This was worse. It was the angry, jabbing, pointing index finger instead. You know… the scolding you’re-being-a-bad-girl-and-you’d-better-behave-or-else-you’re-really-gonna-get-it finger that your mother gave you if you were taunting your sister while she cried or you so much as glanced at the cookie jar 30 minutes before dinner. The one that apparently STILL has the power to reduce an independent, 36 year old woman to a puddle of shame.

I guess she was cranky because … OK … maybe I almost sort of pulled out in front of her this morning when turning off my road and heading to work. I wasn’t actually going to pull out in front of her. Of course I was going to stop. Or at the very least pause. Due to the disparity between parking spots and automobiles in my neighborhood, many people are forced to park on the side of the road, leaving a driver no other choice than to pull a little further out into the road in order to see around said vehicular visual obstructions. This is allI was doing—checking for traffic in the middle of the road—in order to proceed safely and merrily on my way.

And she freaked. And the finger came flying out with great gusto! At first I was shocked by the overt aggression in her appalling gesture… then a fraction of a second later extremelytempted to give her the index finger right back. But then I thought better of it, given that I most likely reside within a 2-block radius of this woman. If the saying goes that you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer, then I would venture to go one step further and say that you ought to keep your neighbors right under your nose… and remain squarely in their good graces.

However… I would also say that this whole unpleasant situation could have been avoided if only she had stayed in her house and off the road until the regular morning commute was over. See, I have this theory. Do you want to hear it? If not, I suggest you stop reading this right now because of course you know I am going to share it.

Here goes: People who are (for lack of better words) retired and unable to drive at least the speed limit should NOT be on the roads between the hours of 7-9 a.m. and 4-6 p.m. I feel this should be a law. From 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. they can have at it. As far as I’m concerned—the roads can belong to them. Here is my reasoning… many of these people aren’t fond of theI’m-in-a-hurry-and-need-to-get-where-I’m-going-NOW-because-my-5-yr-old-had-a-meltdown-this-morning OR the I’m-exhausted-from-cramming-my-non-work-life-into-4-hours-every-evening-so-I-overslept-this-morning-thus-causing-me-to-rush-around-to-get-to-work-on-time dilemmas that 8 to 5 commuters have. In fact, they often perceive the aforementioned rushed drivers to be “annoying” or “threatening” or “dangerous” or “insane” or “scary.” And it is because of this conflict that—when on the road at the same time—things can turn ugly in 0 to 60 seconds.

So to my neighbor and her guilt-wielding, road-raged appendage I say: Either stay off the road or I suggest you holster that finger. Because next time… I might just fire one right back at ya. Have a nice day.

Fending Off Crazy Cat Woman

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I could feel the stranger’s eyes boring into the back of my skull and the heat from his stare on my neck. “Don’t judge me.” I thought to myself as I set the groceries on the conveyor and glanced over my shoulder at the man standing behind me with his filled-to-the-brim shopping cart.

I put the plastic divider in place after pulling the remaining items from the cart and reviewed my impending purchases… A quart of skim milk, two containers of flavored coffee creamer, a bottle of OJ, one box of cereal, a loaf of bread, a brick of cheddar, three Lean Cuisines and 10 cans of cat food.

My tiny bundle of staples barely covered a third of the checkout counter. And it occurred to me that the aforementioned items probably screamed: “CRAZY, SINGLE, CAT WOMAN!!” to anyone who cared to investigate what it was I was buying. I wondered if he felt pity toward me… “Poor woman.” He probably thought. “Mid-thirties. Obviously purchasing dinner for one. Clearly companioned by one or more cats. Poor thing. She’ll probably go home, microwave her dinner and watch Lifetime all by herself.”

It’s what I would have thought. I judge people based on what they buy at the grocery store all the time.

Sensing his judgment and pity I smoothed my skirt and stood a little taller trying to act all nonchalant, confident and indifferent as to what anyone thought of me and my two-cans-shy-of-a-dozen cat food collection. I interacted with the checkout girl by enthusiastically chatting her up about the weather and the upcoming weekend to illustrate that I do, indeed, have social skills and some semblance of a life. She rang me up, we bagged it up and I strutted out of the store like I owned it.

“I am not a crazy, sad, sorry, single, cat woman. I do have a boyfriend. I am a perfectly happy, successful, well-adjusted, strong woman. ” I said with my body language. “You don’t know me.”

Perhaps my affinity for TV shows that delve into the intricacies of the human psyche is to blame for my hyperactive-grocery-store-paranoia. Consistently watching CSI, Criminal Minds and House might be the reason I ask such questions as: What do these purchases say about me? What would an FBI profiler glean from the ratio of human to feline food in my pantry? If someone murdered me in my home while I slept, would the cops feel sorry for me when they processed the crime scene?

Then again… maybe I just watch too much TV… with my cat.

Thrisis Averted

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Recently I read about something called a “Thrisis.” Apparently, it is a newly-invented term for that dreaded period of time when someone in their late-twenties freaks out because they find themselves staring straight down the barrel of the big 3-0.

Give me a break…

MUST we make up a name for EVERY single portion of the life cycle now? Apparently we must… because we do. Mid-life crisis has been around awhile… but now there are the tweens, the quarter-life crisis, kidults and thresholders—another fairly new word for 20-something men and women who delay adulthood, opting for perpetual adolescence instead.

Now, don’t get me wrong about the practice of creating new words. Language is a living thing, and I completely understand that making up new words is an important part of cultural evolution. I LOVE words. I can’t get enough of them. You can ask anyone. I SAY a lot of words, I WRITE a lot of words… just like now… I am typing these words just because I can.

Anyway… As a 36 year old, let me put the late-20-something-kids-in-thrisis at ease. Thirty is nothing. I welcomed 30 with open arms. I threw a freakin’ party for 30 when it arrived on my doorstep! It is a wonderful demographic in which to be a part of. No longer viewed a “child” by society… you achieve actual adult status, but the investment firms, insurance and pharmaceutical companies haven’t begun stalking you yet.

Now, 35 on the other hand has been a bit more interesting… And perhaps the term thrisis is MORE applicable here.

You see, at 35…

  • You find constant comfort in the fact that Jennifer Aniston and the rest of her “Friends” are older than you are.
  • You notice the lines linger long after the laughter has stopped.
  • You have entered a new bracket on just about everything… forms, various risk calculations, medical conditions, surveys, products, etc.
  • You are becoming acquainted with new vocabulary words such as: mammogram, vitamin deficiency, blood-sugar level, bone density, “good” cholesterol, “bad” cholesterol and triglyceride.
  • You encounter people who, upon hearing your age, start their next sentence with the words: “Well, you’re still not too old to… ” Then, upon realizing you’ve unwittingly become a victim of ageism, you ask yourself: What the #$@!?
  • You still prefer the look of the clothes and styles in the Junior’s Department, but can no longer shop there due to the fact that the Jr. garments do NOT have industrial-strength slimming, smoothing & supporting spandex cleverly-hidden in every nook and cranny.
  • You discover that putting “enough” lotion on your neck has suddenly become an obsession.
  • You realize that your hatred for Justin Bieber stems from the fact that he reminds you of the brat who tortured you while you babysat him WHEN YOU WERE 14.
  • You, yes YOU are now the target audience for Botox commercials.
  • You are no longer the “young” one on the job. You have actual co-workers who not only do not KNOW who Chris Farley, David Spade, Mike Myers, Matt Foley, Linda Richman or Jack Handy are… They don’t find them funny either.

So if you’re standing on the brink of the big 3-0… Fear not! ENJOY yourself… Because you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.