What is it about us women folk that we fret over a perfectly natural process that is part of living...aging? Isn't it absurd that the women amoung our species make and doll themselves us as part of the mating game that we play with our men (and fret about showing signs of getting old or that we can't 'make ourselves up' as easily, or the same anymore) and in almost every other species it is the ...male that struts, cocks, preens and prunes his image so as to attract a mate...? (I have to stop wondering things like this, it only leads to wondering absurd things like 'I wonder what the world would look like if everyone had their own special coloured farts - you know, that would poof or dart, depending on whether you toot or let rip - be hard to blame the guy next to you in the elevator.)
My husband says I think too much...
My husband says I think too much...
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