Hey there girlfriend. Ms. over-40-and-still-got-it...Yeah, you. When did you stop looking in the mirror? That snugly little sweater you're wearing isn't that attractive with the gravitational draw on your navel. It would be much more attractive if you planted geraniums in there. At least we could understand why we are being forced to look at your sagging belly button. It's like watching a big fleshy eye socket longing for it's lost eyeball. Unless there's money in there, and the public can apply for mining permits, cover that winky-blinky up.
There was a lovely 40-ish gal on the bus yesterday. Bouncy red hair, gorgeous full length yellow sun dress. It fit her - once upon a time. As she stepped out in front of me I could see the delicate roses and "pick me" written across the back of her underpants. Take my word for it, if you have to wear a dress that's too small (you'll know this because your boobs and your second roll of pudge are the same size when you cram it all into the dress) for goodness sakes wear white underwear. What ever happened to great old cotton big-girl undies that you can pull up to your chin? If there was ever a time we needed grandma's panties, this is it.
Friday I was standing next to a women at the bus stop (there's something about us fat and fifty women at bus stops...I sense a theme here) that made me decide I'll never make tapioca again. Although, to be candid, I hate tapioca and would only make it for those I love the most, I have now recanted and will leave the pudding to be pudded by someone else. There, at my side, was a 5'2" bratwurst bursting her well barbequed skin. She had on white stretch pants. The dimples in her thighs peeking through the paper-thin knit looked exactly like tapioca. I toyed with the idea that perhaps I was on candid camera (I look surreptitiously around) and this actually WAS tapioca woman sloshed together to fool and amuse. Then she asked if I knew how long before the next #9 bus was due. I can be fooled, but tapioca doesn't talk.
I had to grab a hand-hanger on the bus to keep from being slapped by the bat-wing arms hanging out her sleeveless shirt. And there, amid the well tanned fudge sundae that was my new bus-riding friend, was a massive bosom that rolled out of her tank top like marshmallow creme gone wild.
Hint to all the over-40's (even the ones who were recently mistaken for chopsticks at the sushi joint): As yo approach 50, the more you cover, the better you look. Start investing in hats.
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