I’ve always been told you never ask a woman her age.
What is so taboo about the number of years we’ve been alive?
I had dinner with a friend last night and the inevitable question came up, “How old are you?”
I wasn’t too reluctant to say “40,” but I imagine if I were a woman, I would have answered with a lesser number.
“40?” he gasped! “I look pretty damn good for 40 even if I am supporting that look with some Botox here and there,” I replied.
“How did it feel to turn 40?”
That’s just one on the list of silly questions that are associated with turning a milestone year.
“Well, when I got up that morning, my bones hurt, I suddenly had the gout, a case of shingles wasn’t far behind, I was terrified of incontinence, and it took me longer to pee than normal.”
Women lie about their ages all the time, but men don’t. Unless they’re 84 chasing a 45 year old – then he suddenly drops 20 years in two seconds, pops a Viagra and prays to Aphrodite that he gets a little.
I admit that turning 40 was a bit startling at first, mostly because my so-called friends who will be hitting that number sooner than they think, made it a point to rub it in.
Thanks guys, my memory hasn’t failed me yet and your time is coming soon.