Photo by Diana Polekhina on Unsplash
With a pretty significant birthday staring me in the face and the lines in my forehead forming a six-lane freeway with little off ramps headed to my hairline, I’ve come to one conclusion.
The only way to rectify my sad state of facial affairs and survive the “big” day is with an assist from modern medicine.
Toward that end I’ve found a doctor, booked a free consultation, and pillaged our mutual funds in preparation for bankrolling my body work.
I think that’s fair. That money was earmarked for our retirement. So what we can’t retire?
At least I’ll look too young to.
All kidding aside, I hate birthdays. Particularly “landmark” birthdays family and friends fuss over.
You know; the kind of milestone event that elicits covert phone calls and furtive whispers as people try to decide what to buy to cushion the blow.
Of course no one says that, but it’s what they’re thinking.
Only on “big” birthdays do people proffer trips and shiny trinkets, spa days and designer handbags.
On regular birthdays it’s a coup just to get a card.
And frankly this year I’d be happy to forgo the Shoebox Greetings.
There’s really nothing anyone can give me that I haven’t already got.
Flabby abs and stretch marks? Check.
Under-eye bags the size of breasts? B-cup, baby.
Saggy lids, adult acne, and the luster free skin that’s the hallmark of the hot flash set? Trust me; I’m a dermatologist’s dream.
Clearly, I’ve got it all, so there’s no need to buy me anything.
There is, however, one gift everyone can give me that requires no shopping, no wrapping, no rushing to make sure I receive it on the exact day the earth was graced with my presence, and no wondering if I’ll like it.
Believe me when I tell you I’ll love it.
Are you listening?
A lie.
Not a big, soul blackening lie.
A small lie.
An itty, bitty, teensy, weensy white lie.
The kind of insignificant, inconsequential prevarication I’m pretty sure God would give a pass.
You can tell it whenever you want to whomever will listen.
And all you have to say is, “Wow, I can’t believe my ______ (insert how you know me here: friend/ wife/ mom/daughter/sister/favorite writer) just turned forty-five! She doesn’t look a day over forty!”
Easy to recall and recite, it’s a one-size-fits-all fib. And it’s available to you to give to me with virtually no worries on your part.
Unless you’re afraid God really will be galled. Then you might want to give me money.
If my family and friends won’t advance my falsehoods, I’ll have to hire the doctor I’m due to see.
Sure, it’ll be tough to get into a 55+ community, but there’s a discount on Botox, Restylane, and Collagen if I pay cash.