The Beginning of the End

I bought some make-up the other day. That may not seem like a big deal to anyone else. Trust me; it is a huge deal. Cause here’s the thing. Make-up is the beginning of a very short road to being elderly. I bet you can’t name one old woman who won’t leave the house without “putting her face on.” There is a certain age that a woman decides that her friends, family, and even perfect strangers should not, under any circumstances, be forced to look upon her naked face.

Next in the short road to elderly-ness is being paranoid. Now that I’ve bought make-up, I predict that it won’t be long before I’m tying my purse handle to the shopping cart and shredding every piece of paper that comes into my home. I’ll start asking friends at lunch to “please watch my purse” while I run to the ladies’ room and I’ll refuse to order anything on-line.

Then it’s a slippery slope to wearing pastel-coloured polyester pants with elastic waistbands and shirts with kittens outlined in sequins. I’ll have short, curly salt-and-pepper hair, beige nurse-shoes, and eyeglasses hanging by a chain.

I bought make-up. I’m afraid.