Welcome to 55+, known to us crusty cool cats as the corn husk years. The era where your body demands attention, akin to a cactus with a flair for the dramatic. This stage of age calls for heavy hydration, perspective, and a wry sense of humour. You’re not half-assing anymore, you’ve gone full-ass droughty.
I know we’ve talked about unwanted hair before, so I won’t bore you with details of a newly found black strand…on my earlobe.
I’m not overly fond of my new Mr. McGoo progressive glasses. The naked eye is a much better liar.
The sheer number of barnacle moles on my hull should qualify me as Captain of the S.S. B-Yacht’ch.
How many times can I tweak something, by doing nothing?
I wish all my social outings were equipped with closed captioning options.
My snagglepuss feet were a little nasty before, but now I’m creepin’ fresh from the crypt, with nails so impenetrable my clippers are fitted with safety goggles.
Forcing layers of creams and oils onto my skin while muttering, “It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again.”
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