One day I got out of bed and everything that just the evening before had seemed securely attached, fell to the floor. I’m sure it made a kind of thud, but I didn’t hear it over the sound of my jaw dropping in response. It seemed like things may be heading in a different direction than I had anticipated. That sneaky piece of toast slathered in chocolate chips and peanut butter, formerly excused by extra exercise, slid straight through and ended up on top of the floppy and droopy things that, while still attached, didn’t seem to want to be a part of my body anymore. I’m not even going into what happened when the bra came off. Just know that I don’t have pets, so no short-statured living things were injured in the process.

Not being one to embrace change, ignoring the aging process seemed to be the best plan of action. Obviously this sack of low-hanging organs and skin can’t be entirely forgotten, (sorry to anyone who has to walk behind me, watch your step) but there are plenty of people around to make it clinical and depressing. That’s not me. Everyone has to age – I mean – schmage – but we sure don’t have to drown in it. There’s a lot that can be discussed: schmenopause, schmair loss, heck, even schmeight gain, if the schmood strikes us. Let’s see where this age schmage thing takes us.