This is what 37 looks like:
I’m still deciding if that’s good or bad.
Either way, at least I am still here and can celebrate another year.
And wear these bad ass shoes
And get presents.
Hell, sometimes I think I stay alive just for the presents.
I think I’m holding my own for the most part in the aging department. Oh sure, lines and wrinkles are starting to make their appearance but I’m fighting it. Mostly because the only needles I like touching my body, carry ink and leave pretty tattoos, so I can’t get Botox.
I mean, a needle to the face? I don’t know ya’ll. Let’s revisit this conversation next year. Or when I have permanent frown lines. After all, I like when people can tell the difference between my I-don’t-give-a-shit face, my OH-Face, and my don’t-fuck-with-me face.
I can’t really tell if gravity is to blame for my deflated tits and my saggy ass, or if it’s the 185 pounds I lost so we will let that one go.
Either way, as long as I can still rock 5” heels, be considered the “cool mom” who my kids friends think is so young, and I can manage not to piss my pants everytime my bladder is full (sharting clearly doesn’t count), I am ok with being 37.
Now, 38….that one I’m gonna fight. For the next 364 days.