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At the end of the 60-minute self-exploration I confidently declared, "Well, mine is still pretty," and then had a flashback to my summer beach vacation.
The same wise friend had transitioned to one-piece swimwear. , I thought as I strutted from my beach chair to the sea.
The photos that others took and then posted on Facebook told a different story.
I struggled to identify the blonde with the muffin-top and then horror hit as I recognized the backside of my own teal swimsuit.
” Humanity is stupid, and it insists on asking me stupid questions.
My almost 50-year-old friend recently told me that "hers" isn't as pretty as it used to be -- she's growing back the hair.
That brave declaration led me to an awkward hour later that evening which involved a mirror and the many different positions I might've found myself in if I happened to be having porn sex. My now-grown daughters always felt my bedroom was a mere extension of theirs and had they barged in that night, there wouldn't be enough therapy in the world. Nearly two decades later, widowed, and a few months past 50, I was questioning all sorts of things.
I’ve lost count of the number of men who have whispered about seeing the desert sky in my “exotic” eyes.
Boy, it’s just eyeliner from Boots, not a pigment ground down from the dust of pharaohs.