It’s time to put my year of 43 to an end.
You’ve been my most honest friend.
But this year, I’m going to listen to you less.
Because I’ve reached an age where I make decisions better than I ever have before and, yes, I can leave my house a total, hot mess.
It’s true that gray hairs have colonized on my planet-sized head and even if I tried to get rid of them up above, they will show up in droves down below instead. Aches in my back as I rise out of bed. All those trips to the bathrooms that I dread…
…so it goes when you get older, bolder, wiser, know-ier. Using words you make up because you can. Making the rules up as the years pass because you can.
You earned it, in grey hairs and hemmoroids.
So what if wear Ugg boots and beanies like I’m in my twenties? Fuck you, I’m in my forties. I’m not doing it to make boys my toys.
Uggs are COMFY, DAMMIT!!!
So, mirror, your opinion isn’t shit anymore.
I got this. I’m the woman covered in walking confidence on the dance floor. I’m cool. I’m fly.
This is 44.
I’m why people want to be old school.