Fifty-three, my eye. My sister gets a physical once a year and this year her doctor said she's just like 36 in physical years (her chronological age is 44). She went on and on and on (help me I thought) about how she was even younger this year than last year. I had to listen to it politely, which I did. I didn't even roll my eyes. I'm not even telling her about my test. These tests are such garbage. They can't tell doodly why some people live long lives and others don't. Even the oldsters themselves are known to give contradicting answers for what they attribute their long lives to. Why I oughta. We used to say better to die young and leave behind a good looking cadaver, but I can't do either now.
Besides which I now read that Americans have to worry about inside fat. As if outside fat that you can see isn't bad enough, now inside invisible fat is killing us. That's just great.
Tell me, do I look 53? Do I look 53! Fifty three point one to be exact. And what's up with the .1? What a bunch of garbage that test is.
Think I'll go exercise and eat a banana and have salad for dinner just in case there's anything to it. But! What to do about the rest of my coffee and cinnamon roll?
I was thinking after my last hair photo that this is some pretty ugly hair and I ought to cut it back to waist at the very least. But before I cut it I decided today to take a couple three photos, snapped by an objective observer of course, to be sure it's what I wanted to do. What was I thinking? There's nothing wrong with my hair. It's okay hair as hair goes. And I'm almost to classic length. Maybe by the end of the year my hair will be to the bottom of my bum! I hope my bum isn't lower by then too.
