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This is what I chose when J. and I went birthday shopping
last weekend. His birthday is the day before mine (today actually)
and all he wanted was a coffee mug. Cheap date, he
is. But not me.
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Happy birthday to me… to the
tune of electric blue Michael Kors extravagance.
When I become that unmentionable
number tomorrow, I may just dive head first into a pit of crunchy kettle chips.
And then into a vat of chocolate. And
when I come out I will no longer acknowledge the “horrible, horrible number” (or
any horrible number relating to age) for the rest of my life. I will be of no admitted years and I will
continue to spend countless dollars on products that promise to remove wrinkles
and reverse signs of aging. And if I
ever win the lottery I will get a face-lift à la Joan Rivers and throw in some liposuction to
reverse the signs of chocolate and kettle chips.
And I am going to carry my
royal blue frivolous waste of money even if it doesn’t match my outfit on any
given day because the color is so eye-catching maybe it will take attention
away from my wrinkles.
