Earlier this week, Wendy over at Knit and Tonic discussed aging and how some women are all philosophical about it, like it's a grand adventure watching one's face, nose, ass and boobies succumb to gravity. (For the latter, there's at least a non-surgical solution, Denver's Store of Lingerie is having its spring sale starting Saturday.) Most women are not all sanguine and loving about their crow's feet, otherwise why would skin care be this mutli-gagillion dollar industry?

I'll admit, I'm not the youngest girl at the party. I have a full head of grey hair. I railed against the dying of the light, until Mom bought me one of these. And let's just say, I don't weigh 102 lbs. anymore.

I also wouldn't go back to being 25 even if you paid me a million dollars and got me a date with George Clooney.

Your 20's suck, people. Admit it. You're trying to start your lives, begin careers, find mates, make money and discover, “Am I a cat person or a dog person“? “Do I want to live in Sundance or Schenectady“? “Do I believe in crystals or Jesus“? And you have to do it while being all clever on MySpace and typing on itty-bitty telephone key pads. Shitfire, man, that's a lot of work!

But you're all cute and perky and passionate and energetic and fresh. Lot to be said for that. 'Specially when something like this occurs:

A year or so ago, Mitch and I were in Westcliffe. I was puttering about the house and Mitch was talking to one of the town's famously inebriated citizens. She asked Mitch, “Where's your wife“? He pointed to the house. “Oh,“ she said. “I thought that was your grandpa.“

Ba da dum.

I recently picked up a brochure posing this question, “What can cosmetic acupuncture do for me?” I haven't thrown it away, if that tells you anything.