I know I've promised a Thursday Three every, um, Thursday, but I'm going to take some liberties with this one. It would be easy to make up some really good excuse, but the bottom line is that I can't think of any topics. Plus, I'm half-asleep, which is never a good way to start writing a post. The sleep I can take care of all by myself. And will, in about twenty minutes. As for the topics - hit me with some ideas, people. The sky is the limit. Go for broke. Ain't no mountain high enough. Whatever. You get the idea.
Anyway, as promised...the (almost) Thursday Three. One story. Too easy.Three segments.
#1. I'm a sucker for anything with the word Makeover in it. I don't know what it is, but I have always loved the idea of turning a duckling into a swan in 30 days or less. Maybe on some level I still believe in fairy tales. Who the heck knows? I have something about this half-written already, so I'm not going to get into it too much right now. Just believe me. Makeover. It's all about the possibilities.
Along those lines, and in keeping with this deathly grim and yet oddly exhilarating self improvement kick I'm on, I've been doing this on-line Makeover called something like How To Look Younger In 30 days. I've never given my age a second thought, but with everything that has gone on here recently, it's been on my mind. I've got no problems with my age. I wouldn't trade the smarts that come with being three years away from the big 5-0 for anything. I'd just rather not look it. Shallow, huh?
#2. Anyone who has been reading this blog for any length of time knows that I'm not a horn tooter. I would rather stab myself in the eyes than say anything nice about myself. Why? Who the heck knows? It's not that I'm down on myself. I say nice things to myself on a regular basis, because that's a good thing to do. Telling other people nice things about yourself is just a little too testosterone charged for me. I'm all about the estrogen, personally. Nice and low key.
Now having said that, you have to forgive me this one. Please? Because even though I'm sure I'm being BS'd, I had something happen at work that made my week. In the shallowest, most self-serving way imaginable. Don't say I didn't warn you.
#3. I was talking to a guy I work with who is, god help him, in his twenties. (And has not the slightest interest in me, I know how you all think. I could be his mother). He was telling me a story about something that is totally irrelevant to my little saga, and in telling it, to make a point, he asked me how old I was. And this is how the rest of the conversation went...
me: how old do you think I am?
young deluded whippersnapper: 34?
me (choking): try again
ydw (so help me god): up or down?
ydw: you are such a liar. okay. 38?
ydw (standing up and walking out): If you're not going to take this seriously, FORGET IT.
It's really bad to get such a kick out of this, isn't it? Isn't it?
Tell the truth. I can take it.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Posted by the rotten correspondent at 12:02 AM