Well, they do say that absence makes the heart grow fonder… How does a year suit you?! Pretty darn fond I’d say!
My last blog entry stated that I had recently turned the ripe old age of 27. I can safely say that I have since then added one whole year to that total. 28. Safely out of the clutches of the ‘27 Club’… Sorry Hendrix, we’ll have to save our high five for later. Much later hopefully, cue touching of wood, rubbing of rabbit’s foot and any other life assuring gestures sure to keep me on this planet until I am old enough to sit in a rocking chair and hit a child with a walking stick*.
Dream big Darrall, dream big.
What I have noticed about this y’ere aging process is that the older I get, the less I give a sh*t. Not about the important stuff like family, friends and SClub7, that I still very much give a big steaming turd about. But the little stuff, the things I used to endure night sweats over in my teendom, that is water off a duck’s back with a few years behind you.
A queef for instance, or in layman’s terms: a fanny fart, when one of those cheeky buggers slipped out in my younger years I would freeze, squeeze my eyes shut and pray for temporary deafness in my gentleman caller.
Whereas, today I positively GUFFAW in the face of a queef, which shall henceforth be new minted as the Victory Honk.
There is something incredibly empowering about aging. So many people shy away from it, fear it or are in darn right denial about but I say NAY: AGE, WISDOM AND BOOB SAGGAGE, I AM READY FOR YOU.
Ok, so the boob saggage I am not quite ready for, that was merely my getting swept up in hyperbole, though due to the nature of having 34Ds (thank you Mother) it is somewhat inevitable. But like that high five with Hendrix, I’d like to stave it off for a few years yet.
Failing that, portable scaffolding will have to do.
Just without the builders please.
So readers, I charge you, when someone asks you your age this week, because they will, the nosey buggers, say it loud and say it proud. If someone I.D’s you, because like me you have the face of a grubby toddler, flash your provisional and nod with dignity. And finally, if the youth at work start calling you Old Papa Laura, take it, make it your own and then hit them with your walking stick**.
*Note to readers, no children were hurt in the making of this day dream.
**Second note to readers, this is a true story and you may all now address me as Old Papa Laura.
Until next time Folks!