I Need Insurance
Last week I had a dream in which my husband was sitting with a big cup of coffee – (which is realistic, but given this dream, it probably should have been a big martini) – and he said to me:
“Your body is looking so good this summer – you should go out and get a bikini.”
And I said,
“Are you kidding? I already have two bathing suits. We could never afford the insurance for three.”
Yeah – that’s what I said in this dream. I didn’t say, “Good Lord, I’m sixty-one” or “Absolutely” or even “You must be horny” – I said that we couldn’t afford the insurance for three bathing suits.
Swimsuit insurance is a crazy idea. Although I do remember back in college when a big wave ripped off one string from my string bikini.
But even though I don’t need swimsuit insurance, it got me to thinking about insurance I would like to have:
Query Insurance.
I wish I had insurance that would protect me against sending out query letters to literary agents that tout my novel but have a really stupid typo. And in case you think this is trivial… long ago, I had a job typing the channel guide in the infancy of cable tv and let me tell you – there is a big difference between ‘public access’ and ‘pubic access’.
Toaster Insurance.
I want a policy that will allow me to replace the english muffins that are not perfectly toasted. Or a toaster that won’t screw them up.
Condiment Insurance.
I want ketchup without a crust around the spout. I want mayonnaise that doesn’t look weirdly yellow when you get to the bottom of the jar. I want mustard that doesn’t pee on your sandwich before the mustard finally comes out.
Event Insurance.
I want a guarantee that I won’t get a run in my stocking at that big wedding. And it should not rain on my hair. AND I’m sixty-one, for God’s sake: I should be compensated generously if I have a pimple on the night of my class reunion.
Travel Insurance.
Lots of people have travel insurance. I want some specific riders on my policy:
If I am driving, I want a gas station exactly when I need one, and a parking space when I finally get where I am going.
I want the clothes in my suitcase to come out the same way I put them in. I pack carefully. Where the hell do all the wrinkles come from?
I want a hotel room where the air conditioner doesn’t sound like the Concorde. And blinds that close all the way.
If I am flying, I want a guarantee that kid behind me won’t kick my seat. With a double jeopardy bonus clause once he hits it one thousand times.
And especially,
I want protection against the inevitable and deliberate turbulence that hits just when I am in the restroom.
Triple Celebration
In celebration of the President’s birthday –
and in celebration of me taking a couple of days off –
and finally –
in celebration of my one year blog anniversary –
*****
Here’s a post from last year when I first started blogging.
*****
A PRESIDENTIAL – BUT NONPOLITICAL – MILESTONE
*****
Disclaimer: As the title indicates, this is not a political post. There is no agenda. This essay is, as always, just about me and my vanity.
*****
Barack Obama’s election to the Presidency was historic in all the ways that have been celebrated, discussed, and debated for the last few years.
But his election also set a personal milestone for me too – although I didn’t realize it until a few weeks ago.
I am older than the President of the United States!
And not just a little bit – as the pundits discussed the President’s fiftieth birthday, I was stricken with the fact that I am a decade older than the President of the United States.
I mean, THAT”S OLD!
In my childhood, presidents were wiser, older. Think Eisenhower. Wasn’t he about eighty?
And young presidents, like my beloved Jack Kennedy – well, he wasn’t young to me. I was twelve when he was killed. And Johnson aged before my eyes in the mid-sixties.
Presidents were old. And you believed in them because of all their vast experience.
But now I have crested that moment when suddenly I am on the other side of the age mountain, and there is no going back. I don’t think there will ever again be a president older than I.
Gradually, but steadily, my life is being overtaken by youth.
First was that all-important person, my hairdresser. I didn’t mind; I told myself that a younger woman will be hipper, and that will be good for me.
Then it was my doctor. Okay, I thought, just out of med school means he is up to date on all the latest scientific knowledge, and that will be good for me.
Then there was the police. Here certainly youth is a good thing – ensuring that our cops have the strength and reflexes to respond to dangerous situations. Like the young trooper dude who helped me break into my house when I locked myself out.
Then it was my boss. I’ve tried to look on the bright side here too. My young boss still has young kids; she’ll understand the difficult balance between work life and home life.
So I’ve given it my best shot to be philosophic about the whole thing.
But the truth is: I’m annoyed.
Government and work and medical care –and my hair – are going to be decided by people less experienced than myself. More and more over the years, more and more pieces of my life will be ruled by WHIPPERSNAPPERS. No, let me change ‘whippersnappers’ – because that makes me sound even older. My life will be ruled by PUNKS.
God, I hope they are wise punks.
The Ugly Duckling Advantage
A few days ago my husband and I went out to dinner. We went to a very nice restaurant that we don’t frequent very often. But we were really good about ordering the healthiest options on the menu. We’re both making extra efforts to be healthier. Our program is called “Fear of Death.”
About halfway through our tasty, but healthy, entrees, another couple came through the door. The guy looked like a bit like my husband. Older guy, nice looking in a manly way (meaning not too much hair left, but still cute).
His wife was striking too…but not in a good way.
She had platinum blond hair, worn long in a 1962 teased flip. If you are my age, you might recognize this as Lesley Gore Hair.
Lesley Gore. Very Flippy.
(and who told her that her checked shirt would be perfect for an album cover?)
To go with her bouffant hair, Restaurant lady wore a low-cut black blouse and a short skirt with a ruffle at the hem. You know the kind of skirt I mean – no matter how you hem it, it’s four inches shorter in the back once it curves your ass.
Can you visualize it?
Not, not this bad… (and shame on you and your perverted visualization.)
****
She looked more like this:
When I see a woman with this kind of style, I always think: “Stuck in Time.”
And I am glad I was an ugly duckling.
Because I’ve noticed that many of the popular girls back in high school are stuck.
Their high school years were, as Springsteen wrote, their glory days. They peaked early. Popular, pretty, envied.
Everyone loved their hair, makeup, clothes. No wonder they’d like to stay there.
And stay there they do. For the next forty years.
But then there are girls like me.
Some of us awkward girls tried hard. Some didn’t even know how to try.
I tried excruciatingly hard.
To unfortunate results.
But there’s a big advantage to teenage inadequacy.
I’m not attached to the way I USED to look. I’m ecstatic to leave it behind.
Yes, there’s not much reason to recapture my previous glory.
Vacation Education
Now that I am planning my micro-vacation, I’ve been thinking about some of the other vacations I’ve taken.
I’ve had lots of pleasant vacations, and a couple of fabulous vacations.
But I had one terrible one.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Just like General Motors thought that this was a good idea:
Chevy Vega Tent (photo source: MSN Autos)
Somewhere around 1974, my best friend Chris had a Chevy Vega. And she got a great deal on the newfangled tent that GM had invented to hook over the open hatchback.
We were enthused! What a great way to go camping!
So we booked a week at a campsite in Ogunquit Maine. I had never been to Maine, so that was terrific too! We were going to have so much fun!
Notice all the exclamation points?
Here’s another one: It was the rottenest week ever!
I learned a lot though.
1. Ogunquit Maine is not a hotbed for swinging activity if you are a twenty-something.
2. Ogunquit Maine is a hotbed for swinging activity if you are a mosquito.
3. The men on the beach were either four or eighty-four. Even if you averaged those numbers, the result was too old for me.
4. The lack of cute boys didn’t mean I didn’t have my share of attention. About 100,000 flies thought I was quite attractive.
5. If your favorite rainy day activity is shopping for scented candles and sand sculptures, Maine in 1974 is the place for you.
6. Evening activity in 1974 Ogunquit was diverse. They had TWO movie theaters. The theater that played “Godspell” had a broken air-conditioner. The theater that played the re-release of “Mary Poppins” had the sound stuck at 124 decibels. (125 dB is where pain begins).
7. When you have to cover your ears during “Chim-Chim-Cher-ee”, you get a terrible attack of the giggles.
8. Car-tents rank right up there with harem pants in the bad idea hall of fame.
8a. You can’t pitch your tent for the whole week, because then you’d have to drive around during the day with your tent hanging off the back of your car. So you have to take it down every morning and put it back up every night.
8b. When you come back from “Mary Poppins”, and have to pitch your tent, many many mosquitoes get inside the car/tent while you are setting it up.
8c. When you finish setting up (sometime around two hours after you start), you have to spray the inside of the car/tent with “OFF”. Then you have to get into it.
8d. The car/tent has really small screen windows. It is summer. It is hot. It is a small car. It is bug-sprayed. There are two people and two sleeping bags. You are basically sleeping in the trunk of a compact car. Sort of like being kidnapped by the Mafia.
But the very most important thing I learned in Ogunquit Maine:
A great friendship can survive even the most horrible vacation.
(but you may need to give it a few weeks.)
You Can’t Take It With You
It’s time for my husband and I to go on a little vacation.
Everyone looks forward to vacation. Everyone but us.
My husband and I are not good travelers.
We hate leaving our precious things.
My husband hates to leave his garden.
It’s the angle… it’s just a regular-sized garden.
And his kitties:
Three of our four fur children.
But we do need to get away for a bit. We always have a nice time and enjoy a change of scenery.
So I convinced my husband to take a mini-vacation. Just two days – only one night away from home.
We’ll go to Newport, Rhode Island. We love walking around that quaint but ritzy town, watching the boats in the harbor, sailing our kite in the sea breeze. Then of course there’s our favorite French restaurant. We’ll stay in a pretty Bed & Breakfast, and then we’ll spend the next day at the beach.
The kitties will be safe with a good friend who will spend the night.
The tomatoes will somehow muddle through without my husband’s loving touch.
So the only worry is for MY precious stuff.
I, too, hate to leave my precious things.
Makeup
Hair Products
I realize I don’t need all of this stuff, and I don’t use more than 20% on a daily basis. (Okay, maybe 3%)
I can’t possibly know what makeup mood I will be in. Perhaps it will be a sunshiny day, and I will want a nice bronzer. Or the romantic lighting in the French restaurant may call for some Brigitte Bardot eyeliner. And what would happen if I pack the taupey-pink lipstick, when I really wanted the pinky-taupe lipstick?
And then there’s all my hair product. I need root lifter and volumizer and shine enhancer and a touch of super-light super-strong gel. Or maybe hairspray, depending on the weather.
See – the problem is that I never know EXACTLY what I may want to use. Even if I pack a volumizer – What if it isn’t the right one? Maybe I want the volumizer in the blue can. Or the one in the purple bottle. Or the white pump.
You may be thinking...’Wait a sec. They’re volumizers. Don’t they all do exactly the same thing?’
So …
WHAT’S YOUR POINT?
Ready for an overnight stay.
When Heartthrobs Need Pacemakers
In September of 1964, my heart did a pitty-pat.
Oh sure, I had been swooning over The Beatles for six months already, but I loved them in that screaming little girl sort of way.
My September crush was a grown-up love for a sexy man. I was thirteen. And in love with Illya Kuryakin.
Illya was the quiet adorable spy in “The Man From U.N.C.L.E”. Oh he was so cute with his shaggy blond hair and his black turtlenecks.
In case you don’t recognize him after forty-eight years, this is David McCallum.
If you watch any TV at all, you can see him about seven times a day on all the airings of “NCIS”.
Yup, it’s Dr ‘Ducky’ Mallard.
My first love is an old man. I personally think he still looks pretty good – but my beloved Illya is now 78 years old.
SEVENTY-EIGHT!
That is simply the shittiest fact I have learned all year.
“NCIS” is actually Grand Central Station for my heatthrobs in their senior years.
First, of course, there’s Mark Harmon. My age exactly (well, six months younger), he’s still extraordinarily sexy – if you overlook the stupid haircut. I think he might actually be trying to prove that stupid hair is not necessarily a barrier to sex. (Or a stupid name.) What I especially like about Harmon’s character on this mediocre show is that he’s had many lady friends over the years – but no young chicks. He dates women his own age. Jamie Lee Curtis is his latest flame. Quite refreshing.
Then there’s Robert Wagner, who has an occasional appearance as Tony DiNozzo Sr. Wagner is 82 now, and I thought he was pretty suave in “It Takes A Thief” in 1968. He still plays the suave ladykiller. And he pulls it off, I might add (smugly).
But it’s still a shock to realize my movie star crushes are all old men now.
Take Malcolm McDowell. When he played H.G. Wells in “Time After Time” in 1979, I was so charmed, I was ready to name my first-born Herbert. (But not Malcolm. Malcolm sat next to me in third grade and he had little sweaty boy stink.) Back to handsome Malcolm: Now he’s 69 and plays evil geniuses on TV. His hair -what there is of it – is completely white.
My favorite Hollywood sweetheart from the seventies is now in his seventies – 77 to be exact. Donald Sutherland’s sensitive mouth and almost-lisp made me swoon all through “Klute”.
Twelve years ago on a business trip to Santa Monica, I shared an elevator with him. He still made me swoon.
My co-workers said, “Huh?”
And that voice! That’s him doing the voice-over in the sensuous ‘Simply Orange’ commercials.
This week I overheard some young girls talking about Keifer Sutherland. They said he was very hot for an old man.
Old Man?
I’m still hot for HIS old man!
Orange juice crush.
Bi-Lingual-Less
I’ve been searching the internet for a language course.
I’ve tried Rosetta Stone, Berlitz, Pimsleur, even LiveMocha (whatever that is) – but they didn’t have what I was seeking.
Then I thought I might need a more technical course, since I’m looking for a business language, so I tried LincolnTech, and DeVry. I even found one called UTI, which is usually a urinary tract infection, but Google offered it, so I checked.
Nothing.
I am desperate to gain fluency in a crucial language:
Hairdresser.
I have never been able to speak Hairdresser.
My first haircut experience was traumatic, and it wasn’t even with a professional hairdresser. It was my Dad. I was four years old (I didn’t have any hair until then) and although I was a very verbal four-year-old, I didn’t seem to have a way to tell my father that he was cutting off my earlobe until it was too late. Did you know that earlobes bleed profusely?
My mother decided right about then that I needed a professional. My older sisters had long thick beautiful hair, and they went to a fancy hairdresser named Frank. With my wisps, my mother took me to the barber. There was no speaking to him. He said, “Sit Still” and took out the electric clippers. If I didn’t wiggle I got a lollipop. If I did, I got bangs that were sloped like the Matterhorn.
By the time I was ten, I was insisting on a hairdresser for girls. Frank cost twice as much as Elviro, but my mother finally gave in.
And to my surprise, Frank spoke a different language. It sounded like English, but when I answered him back, he didn’t seem to understand. I told him I wanted long gorgeous hair like Claudia, but I got the same haircut that Elviro the barber had given me.
It’s a look I call “orphan hair”
But I kept trying.
But the language barrier kept me looking like that until I was thirty or so.
I did learn a few tiny Hairdresser phrases, but it must have been my accent, because they didn’t translate well.
– “Just a trim” translates to: “3 inches”
– “Neaten the nape” translates to: “3 inches”
– “I’d like to grow it out” translates to: “3 inches”
– “Half an inch” translates to: “2 7/8 inches”
***
So I started to bring pictures. But mysteriously, no hairdresser can look at a picture and see what I see.
If I bring a picture with layers:
Jodie
A hairdresser sees:
Not Jodie.
If I bring in a photo for nice highlights:
Jennifer.
A hairdresser may see
Not Jennifer.
And if I have a photo of a fantastic bob:
Keira.
The hairdresser sees:
Not Quite Keira.
***
My current hairdresser is quite good. She listens to me, and nods her head and pretends to understand what I am saying.
My hair looks quite nice, considering she is working with the same hair as you see in the picture above.
But I think that’s because I just let her do what she wants, and I don’t try to communicate.
This week I was sitting with a good trashy magazine waiting for my color to ‘set’. But I was really watching the hairdresser across the way cut a little girl’s hair.
This little girl was about the age I was in my ‘keira’ photo. Her father had brought her in. But he called his wife and put her on the phone with the hairdresser so she could describe what she wanted. I heard the hairdresser repeat, “Shorter in the back, like a stacked bob. Sure. That will be really cute.”
Then the hairdresser proceeded to cut this tyke’s hair a full two inches shorter… in the FRONT! The back hung down exactly the same way it did when the little girl walked in.
I was chuckling to myself about what the mom’s reaction would be when she saw her little girl and realized that language barriers are worse by phone.
Then my color was done and it was time for my cut. I’ve been trying to let my grow a bit (you could call it my one last stab at youth), so while we talked about movies, music, and men, I mentioned to my hairdresser that I wanted the tiniest bit of a trim and a neatening at the bottom. And that I wanted a nice straight line from front to back. Not longer. Not shorter. Even.
“Sure,” she said.
But I forgot that I don’t speak Hairdresser
Yup, That’s even.
Knee-Knockin’
I was a really skinny kid. My knees were the biggest part of me. Big bony joints set in the middle of some weird twigs.
It doesn’t matter so much when you are eight. Everybody’s knees are scabby wonderlands anyway.
Miniskirts were popular when I was in high school in the sixties. I was still skinny everyplace except my knees, but I could cover them up with tights. Not that yellow tights make your knees look smaller, but yellow tights certainly spread the visual interest, so to speak.
Yellow tights
Ah, the college years! Bell-bottom jeans and maxiskirts. Problem solved.
Of course a few years have gone by [forty]. In the ensuing years I added a few layers of dimples and pillows to my big knees. But on the upside, they aren’t bony any more.
My knees haven’t been a big deal. I’m an accountant. I work in an office. Behind a desk. Which is so much better than being a movie star (which was my second choice).
This year my company had a contest to try to get the staff a little healthier. Lose 10 pounds in 10 weeks and get $100. I’m not significantly overweight, but technically I qualified. So why not?
And I did it! Of course, it took fourteen weeks, so no hundred dollars. But I’m ten pounds lighter. As a matter of fact, since I had also lost ten pounds a few years ago for my high school reunion, I am the thinnest I have been in fifteen years.
Time to celebrate! My first inclination is a big bowl of coffee walnut ice cream with hot fudge sauce.
But then I had a better idea. Well, actually the same idea I always have – SHOPPING.
We’ve had a really hot summer, and I’ve had a yen for a sundress. And now I have a sundress body, so I went online and ordered two. I didn’t really want two; I wanted a choice. Keep the best, return the rest – that’s my motto.
This was a good strategy in theory. Until I got the shipment. These two sundresses were in a manila envelope. Both. The dresses were purported to be made from t-shirt cotton. I’ve seen this lightweight cotton described as ’tissue cotton’. That’s appropriate, I think, because they were just like Kleenex. Single ply.
So those went back and I went out to shop in person. Only most of the sundresses were just like the ones I ordered. Very thin material. And also – very very SHORT.
I don’t want a long dress. I wore those in college. I was a hippie. But I am not a hippie now. (Not even ‘hippy’ with a ‘y’, thanks to the contest.) But it seems there are only two choices when it come to sundresses – down to your ankles or up the wazoo.
And so my knee dilemma returns. With an added complication. Even with great knees – and perhaps someone has some, but I’m not sure – how short can you go if you are in your sixties? Is there a forbidden zone that kicks in at a certain age? Am I there?
I found a sundress that’s not too see-through, not too bare, and only a little bit shorter than modesty might indicate. I believe strongly in age-appropriate dressing. But I figure when the weather is really hot, semi-appropriate might be acceptable.
Of course, the saleswoman (who was about nineteen) told me it was fabulous. So I asked a fellow shopper who was more like forty (and trying on a maxi-sundress) if she thought the dress might be too short for ‘someone my age’ – without actually defining what that was. It was unfair of course. This nice lady could hardly say, “Go cover up, you look hideous.”
What she actually said was, “Not at all. That’s a beautiful color for you.”
I’m aware that she changed the subject, which is not a good sign. But I focused on the ‘not at all’ part and bought the dress anyway.
And yesterday, I happened upon this unfortunate Facebook mistake:
Source: Buzzfeed.com
Yes, it’s kind of a shame, albeit an amusing shame, if you have a knee that has a little face in it. But it’s also sweet of Facebook to want to give your knee a name.
If I had to name my knees, I guess I would go with Lavina and Agatha. Because I have my Grandmas’ knees.
Lavina on the left; Agatha on the right.
Slimmer In Seconds!
Thank Goodness!
My first trip to the beach this year was somewhat traumatic.
But my next trip is going to be perfect.
Because SELF.com just sent me the most fantastic beach tips: “How To Fake Slimmer In Seconds!”
And it’s so easy!
1. Break out the sparkly nail polish. Use a flesh tone though, because, like a neutral shoe, you look longer when you don’t break up your lines. Between my fingernails and toenails, I’m good for an inch and three-quarters of ‘longer’. Maybe even one and seven-eighths.
2. Play up good bones. Define your jaw with contouring cream. This slims your face and makes you look more angular. Since my face is as round as a cantaloupe, I am going to use this tip every day, not just at the beach.
3. Add some ‘brow pow’. (That’s a quote; and it’s clever.) Anyway, a strong brow make your face look more svelte. Yeah, svelte is SELF’s word too. Be careful, though. Even though they recommend a strong, thick brow, I’m pretty sure they meant two.
4. Highlight your hair. Dark hair throws ugly shadows and emphasize a full chin. (I sent an email right away to Penelope Cruz. I’m sure she’ll thank me for her thinner-looking chin once she goes blond.) And you should part your hair on the side. Everyone knows that an asymmetrical part is very slimming. I already part a little off-center. I just need to go deeper. Maybe as low as Donald Trump’s. That would be quite asymmetrical.
5. Emphasize your abs. This is genius. You buy foundation two shades darker than your skin, and saturate a makeup sponge. (SELF says ‘dribble’; but that’s just gross.) Then you suck in your abs and trace the outline. I’ve sucked in pretty good, but I still can’t see much. I’m not deterred, however. I can draw pretty well, and I have found a nice photo I can copy. It’s Matthew McConaughey.
6. Use shimmer. For this one you need iridescent eyelid primer. Perhaps the quart size. Smear this all over your collarbones to make them stand out. This technique makes your neck look long and slim. Then use more highlight to add a line down the center of your arms and legs. This will draw the eye to the bony parts of your limbs and away from the fleshy parts. I believe this is called the Halloween skeleton costume strategy.
And that’s all there is to it!
I’m ready!
Slimmer In Seconds!
I Missed The Train
The current heat wave reminds me of the first time I ever wanted to be a grown-up.
Some kids can’t wait to grow up; but not me.
I liked being a kid. I could not picture life without dolls and make-believe. Being an adult looked awful, almost as bad as being a boy – who seemed to do nothing but pretend to shoot each other. Sure grown-ups could still swim and ride bicycles and play cards, but they didn’t seem to have much fun doing it.
I wanted to wear makeup, of course, but I didn’t see a reason why I couldn’t be a kid and wear makeup too. Makeup is part of make-believe – and that was my right as a kid.
No, I didn’t want to grow up.
Until a hot summer trip in 1962 to Washington DC.
My family traveled by train from Connecticut to Washington for my father’s military reunion.
And that train ride changed everything.
The six of us – Dad, Mom, my two older sisters, my little brother and me – were joined by my parents’ best friends and their two daughters.
My sisters were only a year apart in age, and the older of the friends’ daughters was their age too.
The younger daughter Jan was a rambunctious nine-year-old. I was eleven. I had, up to this point, always had great fun with Jan.
I had never been on a train before. The train car had seats that faced each other. This reminded me of a stagecoach like on Bonanza and I was delighted.
My parents sat with their friends, with my little brother between Mom and Dad. The older girls quickly settled down into seats that faced a group of boys. I sat separately with Jan.
Sooner or later, an active little girl can get on the nerves of a daydreamer little girl. A seven hour train ride did it for me.
Jan was up and down and back and forth. She seemed to especially enjoy going to the ladies’ room, as if there were something enthralling about peeing on a train. She needed to visit her mother constantly. She needed a snack every ten minutes. And she wanted to sit by the window…no, the aisle…no, the window. And her method of getting past me was just to crawl over me. I had footprints on my skirt. What a baby.
And from where I sat, I could see my sisters, Christine and Claudia, with Jan’s sister Barbara. Sitting with those boys.
I hated boys.
But on the other hand, there was an awful lot of giggling going on with those boys. It seemed to me the boys even treated the girls to a soda. Like in Archie and Veronica.
I couldn’t hear their conversation. But I knew from Popeye that boys mostly liked to show their muscles to girls. So I imagined that there was a lot of muscle demonstration going on.
And suddenly I was jealous. I wanted to sit on the train with boys. I wanted to be laughing with boys. I wanted to flirt. I wanted to be grown up like my sisters. (who were 14 and 15.)
We saw all kinds of historic things in Washington on that trip. But I only remember the oppressive heat. And that train ride.
But I realize now that I missed my opportunity to get my wish.
For many years, I had a job which required me to take the train to New York once a week. I got to ride on the train with boys.
But all these guys had their laptops and their cell phones and their Wall Street Journals.
Where were the cokes? Where was the laughter? The flirting?
Years of riding on the train with boys and not once – NOT ONCE – did a boy show me his muscles.
I’m so disappointed. Being an adult sucks as much as I thought it did.
notquiteold 