As Young as You Feel

Browsing Twitter this morning, I saw many birthday wishes for a friend of mine who's turning 40 today.

"Happy birthday, you young whippersnapper!" I tweeted.  She's 40.  I'm forty-mumble.  My birthday next month will push me squarely into the pushing-50 camp.

I've reached the age where I try to "beat the game" when I have to fill out a survey involving questions about age.  Will it be divided by decades?  Usually, no.  Often I find the age groupings strangely arbitrary:  24 to 31, 35 to 43, 27 to 33...you never know.

But there's no better way to depress a gal than to design those age groups so that she finds her age at the beginning of an older group rather than at the middle or end of a younger one.  That's where it gets tempting to fudge things a little--to mumble, if you will, so I can fit into a younger group.

Pretty silly when you consider that I accept every gray hair as a badge of honor.  I'm still dealing with teenage skin, for crying out loud!  My beauty routine involves hijacking my daughter's acne cream for those facial blemishes, while using anti-aging moisturizer everywhere else.

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