🔸 20 Something: I flirted my way out of a traffic ticket by inching a mini skirt into a micro skirt, exploiting my glorious gams. We’re talking seatbelt, speeding, and outdated insurance in one youthful act of stupidity.
🔹 Midlife: The officer shields his eyes as I roll up the bottom of my sweatshirt, revealing a glimpse of a nipple lying on my belt. With a look of disgust, he slaps me with a $130 fine and a warning for indecent exposure.
🔸 20 Something: The party don’t start til I walk in, after 10:00 pm. Pre-drinks flowed somewhere on a flowered chesterfield with a mickey of cheap liquor. I had enough savings to buy one beer at the bar, a street-meat hotdog, and $3 to keep my car running until payday.
🔹 Midlife: Day drinking suits my golden girl lifestyle. I prefer to be fed, watered, and in my caftan by 10:30; factoring in pesky pee breaks to get a solid seven zzz’s.
🔸 20 Something: In 1986 B.C. (before Cosby), I’d freely accept drinks from random strangers, leaving them unguarded to shake my groove thing. To ensure all the Sex On The Beach you could handle, it wouldn’t hurt to give the bartender a hand(y).
🔹 Midlife: I juggle my purse, cocktail, dignity, and phone precariously in the filthy women’s john to dodge a game of roofie roulette.
🔸 20 Something: I’d fall into a deep-pass-out sleep until noon the next day, a mask of cakey makeup suffocating my pores.
🔹 Midlife: I’m determined to complete my 15-step skincare regimen, despite teetering tipsily and conking my forehead on the faucet.
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