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?
Nurse, MD 