Aging like fine whine
People age differently, some gracefully while others try to deny it with chemicals, dyes and outright lies.
My Pappy told me never to bring up age with girls under five or a woman over 50 – because they’ll both exaggerate. He was not only wise, he was a wise-ass, too.
I’ve written about ignorance, intolerance and the four horsemen, but this is the touchiest subject known to man.
I’m not suggesting that women are to blame for their age issues, men too, are at fault for believing them or letting them get away with it.
Right at this very moment there is a woman out there in newspaper-land who will be upset with me for using the words age, women and truth in the same sentence.
A wise man wouldn’t dare broach the subject, but I think it’s about time I abused some elders.
The fairer sex will punch a man on the nose if he were to miss her age by 10 years or more.
If a woman asks you, how old do you think I am? Think carefully. Judge the woman’s mood and if you’re still uncertain, may I suggest that you keep your yap shut unless you want it smacked like a bad puppy.
A sly silver haired fox will wink, smile and lie through his teeth and then act surprised when she reveals her true age. A horse’s ass would say, nay and a dumb donkey would hee-haw.
Young girls want to be older and older ladies want to be young girls again. Another oddity, concerning women and aging is how they react to these numbers: 20, 30, 40 and 50. Some ladies celebrate the milestones, while others will treat them more like tombstones.
I can’t explain how the physics would work, but women have claimed that time speeds up after they reach 30.
I can only equate it to dog years. For every year after 30, women say that they feel five years older, feel exhausted, feel overworked and feel things drop.
Women have also claimed that the Earth’s gravitational pull gets stronger after 40 — I guess that would explain all of the little old ladies with those long saggy earlobes.
Men don’t age the same as women, we’re better at keeping fit until we get married, then our belt buckles start to point towards the ground.
When we men start to turn grey; we’re called distinguished. When a woman finds a white hair it’s all out chemical warfare. When plucking just doesn’t work anymore women cry out, dye you @*$#!, dye!
As I’ve grown older (not up), pain is a subject I avoid. Unless I have an hour or two to spare I’ve stopped asking white-hairs: how are you?
I never went to medical school until I moved next door to ol’ coot corner retirement villa. Now I can tell you all the symptoms to any number of ailments.
As spry (a word I never thought I’d need) as I feel, I know age is marching faster than I am. My clock is ticking louder, at least I think it is. Time waits for no one.
I know I’ve picked on women a bit in these words of wit, but to be fair, I must admit that we men are to blame for your grey hairs. We have the fun and you get the stretch marks – it’s just not fair.
“It’s good to be King!”