Like all of us, I get a lot of junk email. G-d forbid I express even a fleeting interest in something. I will then get emails from that something and all of the related somethings for the rest of my life. Which, apparently, according to the more recent glut of emails, is not very long. All of a sudden, advertisements from clothing stores, makeup lines and home goods have been overtaken by missives about hormone replacement, impotence, walk-in bathtubs, burial plots and something called “Crepe Erase”. WTF? Apparently, Big Brother truly is watching me. No matter how old I get, I still feel like I’m 18. Ok, 30. Spoiler Alert. Not. And it really pisses me off that every ^*%@ing day my inbox cheerfully reminds me of that fact.  And not just my personal email. The specter of death has infiltrated my work email as well. Now there’s a couple of ways I can look at this. I can shuffle along, complaining about my aches and pains, mumbling to myself, secure in the knowledge that the fact that I can’t remember the term for “welcome mat” is the first step towards dementia. Or I can continue to feel 18. Or 30. Travel, sing karaoke, get another tattoo. I can take care of myself so that I can embarrass the crap out of my nieces when I dance with a 25 year old waiter at their wedding. There is something to be said for being smart, being prepared. Taking care of our health, saving for retirement, wearing our big girl panties. But nowhere in the rule book of life does it say that you can’t wear them on your head. 

Carmen 2, commission

carynjune