QOD: Milestones.

Me: “Good God, I got a good look at my hair at work last night. Have you noticed all the grays showing?”

The Writer: “Uh yeah. Looking pretty salt and peppery there.”

Me: “Salt and Peppery??! Can’t you think of some other way to put it??”

The Writer: “Erm, you’re looking more…distinguished…than usual?”

Me: “Distinguished??! Who am I, Sean Connery?? Gross!”

The Writer: “Well, how do you want me to say it?”

[Pondering]

[Still Pondering….]

Me: “You’re right. There’s no good way for you to tell me this stuff. Better just have one of my friends do it.”

So, it seems not only am I now consistently a “Ma’am” to customer service staff everywhere, I also have to dye my hair on a regular basis. Not because I feel like it, because it’s cool, or I feel like expressing my individuality, but because if I don’t, apparently I will look more like I should be applying for a bed a Shady Pines than a medical residency position. Informal surveys indicate that I had better wait until after interviews to go all Emmylou Harris (who I is think is *gorgeous* Tyvm). Getting older, is awesome.

Can’t I just skip to the part where I abandon all efforts at verbal filtering and fart with impunity?

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