Okay, so I'm sitting at a friend's house last Saturday talking to a mutual friend. I'll call her Cheryl. Well, this is after I'd done one of my training walks of 17 miles, but I thought I'd recovered quite nicely. I'd bathed, napped, dressed and even combed my hair and put on make up before leaving the home. And I had on a brand spanking new dress. I'm feeling pretty good. Especially since in two weeks I'll be turning 49+1 (and if you say it we will no longer be friends). So why does a man who's sitting across the room from us ask me if I my friend Cheryl is my daughter. She's 49 +oh never mind.
Now don't get me wrong. Cheryl looks no where her age. Talk about good genes and she holds the wild card. She could pass for her daughter's sister, but hey. . . me... her mother. Even if she was 40 what does that make me, 49 +20.
The wonderful complimentary man couldn't see the err of his ways even after all of the other men in the room told him he should know what to say and what not. He told me I looked good. Well sure, I guess so for a 70 year old.
And just when I thought I was looking good. Dang, Maybe I shouldn't have done the training walk.