And since 60 is the new 40, that means I'm really only 24, but with the wisdom and experience of someone 20 years older.
For what more could I ask? Besides the body of a 24 year old? Hell, I'd be more than happy to have the one I had on my 40th birthday. Seriously. If I can Photoshop a bikini on the self-portrait I took on the day of my 40th (because I knew they day would come when I'd hardly believe that was me), I'll show you. I can thank Katrina for between 10 and 15 post-hurricane, stress-induced pounds, on top of the 10 that came after 41. Damn you, Katrina. (Again.) I want the old body back, even if it's the 42 year old version. I'm not used to this! I want to wear my favorite old clothes again, dammit.
*This episode of nostalgic vanity and pointless kvetching is now over.*
Okay. We can count the weight gain and its consequent assault on my sense of self (and to some degree, my self-esteem), as Item # 2 of the ongoing laundry list started in the last post.
Better still, lets call it ...
The Second Weigh Station on the Road to My Deepression.