It’s official.  I’mshort skirt an old-ass woman.  Yup.  At the right ol’ age of 31 I have officially become… OLD.

As I got ready for a networking event at a trendy (read: not for old-assed women) bar downtown I was excited for the opportunity to meet with like-minded women.  There were LOTS of women.  And men.  Who looked like they were there to pick up the women.  The crowd was mix of teeny-bopper meets 2nd career with me in the middle.

I was pitched facelifts, botox, and weight-loss products.  The girls…Wow!  Some of those skirts were *really* short.  And it’s really, really cold out.  In all seriousness my postpartum hemorrhoids froze off just looking at those skirts!

The beach-bum bar tender gave me tequila instead of  wine. “We don’t have wine” they informed me as they liquored me up.  And you can bet your bottom dollar they had no caffeine to sober me up, either.  “Here, have some popcorn!” Thanks buddy, that really helps.

So I had my two drinks, worked the crowd and came home to my kids who like to remind me that not only am I ancient but my bum is wayyyy to big for the thongs on that mannequin.  Lovely!  Somehow it’s cute, not offensive, coming from them.

‘Good Housekeeping’, not ‘Cosmo’.  Wine & cheese, not sushi & martinis.   Cotton, not spandex.  Fun, Fabulous, Fat (at least, that’s what the camera tells me).  But Old?  Shit I thought I had a few years still before bartenders looked like kids.

Drink up ladies, ’cause its downhill from here!

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