Old and Proud, In Briefs
In December, Dr. No gave me bad news that roughly translated to: You’re dying. Not today or tomorrow, or in fact any time earlier than can be expected for an entirely healthy 41-year-old woman like me… but… well… eventually. In other words, "You're getting old, kid." It depressed me for the better part of a month, until recently. Good spirits returned. I thought I was over it. But then I went to Lord and Taylor, and I committed a crime of grave anti-levity. I bought briefs.
Clearly, I had had an “Oh, whatever!” moment. I had told myself, “You’re old now; get over it.” May as well just buy the briefs, right? I mean, even Stieg Larrsen called his 42-year-old protagonist middle aged.
I see the road ahead now. First stop: Briefs. Next stop: Anchorwoman haircut. (FOX newscasters don’t count.) What next? L. L. Bean denims? A Subaru Outback? Merrell walking/hiking shoes? Stop! I want to get off the bus!
For you neophytes, let me explain: Briefs. Are. For. Old. Ladies.
For you young ladies who wear briefs and think it’s ok: It’s. Not. You’re. An. Old. Fart. Before. Your. Time.
For you men who want to know what wearing briefs is like, I suggest you consult with an old boyfriend of mine. What can I say? It was a rebound.