Why Is The T.V. Remote In My Purse?

There are two forms of absentmindedness that begins to occur during this decade. 

'Senior Moments' - when you draw a full blank when attempting to remember people, places or things. In the family room staring down the hallway at my nephew. "Come here (frantically beckoning him).....you." Pause.  "You know your name...". 


'If I have this, Where is that?' - the hilarious game in which you pick up one thing (say, the garbage) when you meant to leave the house with something else (say, your purse). 

It starts out pretty small and insignificant. You walk into your bedroom because you forgot your sunglasses. You walk out of your bedroom with the Costco sized moisturizer in your hand. You walk into your office looking for a file. Stand in the middle of the room staring blankly at nothing for a moment. Ah HA! Pick up the stapler and proudly stroll out of the room.

Remember the way you would tease your parents about being old and forgetful? Mocking them about not being able to find their glasses while they were visibly on top of their heads? Wondering why they gave you a comb when you asked for a soda? And both came from the refrigerator?


As someone who was a spelling bee champion, as someone who could remember multi-pages of script overnight during her fledgling acting days, as someone who prided themselves on being a storehouse of useless knowledge (what is the home planet of Luke Skywalker? The Godfather. All of them.) and therefore much desired at Trivial Pursuit parties, this whole experience is quite....mortifying. yucky. fucked up. 


Yes, I should be more concerned that this might be a medical issue and not a matter of bruised pride. And at first, I was. Started eating more carrots. They are supposedly good for memory. What's up doc and all that. Started exercising more. The rush of endorphins are suppose to keep your body and mind active, aware. In addition to achy, breathless and tired. Started doing brain puzzles - in a little worn out paperback book, fumbling with the Rubik's cube, choking on the Sunday NY Times crossword (damn near killed me), wherever, whenever. By all appearances, you would have thought I was a freaking genius. Unfortunately, nothing seemed to be working as instantly as I willed it. Still forgetful. Still blank. I obviously had a brain tumor. 


So, I went to my much put upon, extremely kind, scarily patient doctor. The one who was attempting to survive my fourties with me. With a straight face, I asked for a brain scan. He released a deep sigh. Gave me a very patient smile, a gentle double pat (pat-pat) on my upper arm and said, "Relax. This is all part of the process." 


Well, that's certainly reassuring. 


Have to admit, my 'brain freezes' do come in handy during certain times. Running into an old booty call who I couldn't stomach in the light of day...that boring barfly who attempts to regale me with stories of her swinging '60's life while I hang out with my friends....going to the corner store for garbage bags but walking out with cookie dough? Priceless. 


During a mid-day shopping expedition (I do conveniently remember where the shoe stores are located) with a friend who is also living this decade to the best of her ability, we started to discuss a really popular movie that we liked. Could not place the name of  the super important most desired actor that appeared in it. Snapping our fingers, hitting each other...arrrggghhhhh. "I can see his face but can't think of his name". We shrugged. It would come back to us in time. And when it did, I called her. At 4:00. In the morning. 


As long as I can still remember the important things - my nephew's birthday, when my TV show 'the real housewives of grab your hair throw a drink in your face' comes on, how to insert a tampon, the best way to make a cold martini (shake it baby not stir)...I'm good. I figure the shit I can't remember isn't that important anyway. Or at least, not today. 


xo,
Fabulously Fourty(ish)

Can I Wear This? Should I Wear This? What The Hell Am I Wearing?

I had a girls night out recently where I wore a pair of leather leggings, open toe high heeled booties, a pleated waist length top and some long punky earrings (baubles beads chains oh my). I looked around the room at the other ' 38-50 ' groups and thought   b  o  r  i  n  g . A bunch of old broads. Ha. Another look and I saw they were checking me out. Really checking me out. Ha. Flipped back an earring. Take that you out of date unstyl-....wait. Dear jeesus. Was I the one who was being mocked? Were they more appropriately attired than I was? Was I the old lady still trying to look hip? 

Daaaammnnnnn.  

Look. I live in the N.Y.C. where project runway is being reenacted everyday, everywhere, in every way, regardless of race, color or economic status. Women whose faces are as lined as the sidewalks upon which they step, Women who have just begun their tentative march into the ages, Girl babies who can't comprehend what a 'potty' is, all rock fabulousness from the jewels to the Vogue worthy ensembles topped off by noteworthy shoes, reptile rich handbags (whether hobo/clutch/or diaper) with the sharpest shiniest hairstyles or funkiest hats imaginable. This is the City where women wear their fierceness at all times whether they are going to work, to play, to the gym or to the corner store. It is about creating a picture, a look, a lasting impression. Giving everyone an instant polaroid of Who.You. Are. 

For the very first time in my life, I am Not. Quite. Sure. 

Well, let me rephrase that: I know who I am. I just apparently have misplaced my sense of 'dress' used to convey this thought. Shopping now requires some actual thinking.The kind of thinking normally required for scientific studies is now needed when deciding whether or not days of the week underwear is age appropriate (oh, shut up). 


A draped top with enough layovers to cover Mt. Rushmore provides camouflage for the middle (formerly known as The Waist). Cap sleeves are more feasible than no sleeves for they decoratively hide the slight waddling on the upper arms (known as The Flappers). All jeans/stretchy ski type pants must have at least 95% Lycra content for they also serve double duty as spanx. Yes, they prevent my ass from jingling, baby, but unfortunately they also prevent me from getting laid. Not very sexy when your partner has to remove them with lube and Home Depot tools instead of his teeth. Heels? Hahahahaha. The six inch f**k me pumps have turned into the 'walk with bad knees' comfort sole. With all of that, the least of my concerns should be whether or not my outfit is age appropriate.  The fact that I can still get into half of this shit and walk, talk, sit and breathe is enough of a major coupe. Yay me. 

But occasionally, I have wondered. And continue to wonder. Actually said it out loud to my cats, to my friends, to myself, to my mirror. Are supersupersuper straight legged dark rinse jeans for me? Can I get away with a funky 'I Heart NY' shredded tee from the teen department at Target? If I put it under a suit jacket? How about those adorable short waisted tight sleeved designer motorcycle jackets? Too much Joan Jett and not enough Julie Andrews? Who is Joan Jett? Fuck off. 

I have taken to looking at other women in my age group to see how they are handling this issue. And by what I can see, it's a fifty-fifty proposition. Some have a prom queen dream happening on top (from THEIR teen years) that segue ways into a fashion police pit stop in the middle dragged kicking and screaming into a "oh no she didn't' moment on the bottom. Confused to say the least. Others appear flawless. Striding about in skyscraper heels in the latest fashionable 'an-som-ball' and flowy highlighted locks. Effortless. How long did it take them to reach nirvana? Well, they look older than 40'ish to me. Just saying. 


St. John separates are not for me. Neither are Crocs - at least taken seriously. And those mature matching tailored sweatshits, I mean, suits? I think you know my answer. Instead of being able to leave the house in under 10 (mins) it is taking me over 10 (hours) with plenty of yelling, flinging and "I'm just not going, dammit" in between. What to do when you are *ahem* seasoned but don't feel seasoned? 

Ignore everything. Ignore everyone. B R E A T H E. Continue to listen to yourself. If you start questioning whether it is appropriate or not, it probably isn't. Just like that twenty eight (one can only hope) year old hot boy you were flirting with. Might be a good idea at that moment but the residual effects will be long lasting. Stop worrying. Stop fussing. Wear the hell what you like with your head held high. People will realize that you are obviously 'going through' something and will turn away after giving you a slightly lingering glance. Depending on what the hades you put on this morning. 

Yes, you are still you. More rather than less. Fashionable, sexy, cool you. Do the leather skirt; just end it lower than the hair on your pleasure box. Do the motorcycle jacket; just don't put a multi-colored sequin skull on the back. The six inch heels? Necessary evil. Wear them from the car to the bar - seat. And the pants? Can't be helped. Just bring an extra tube of lube and a set of pliers with you. 

xo,

Fourty(ish) and Fabulous

Grey, Grey (ahem) 'everywhere'....

During this decade, the hair turns weird. Horror show weird. 


First, the hair on your head begins to reflect your new found personality. Acting all wild and crazy and completely out of control. Running with scissors and jazz hands screamingly on edge. No brush, amount of gel or chainsaw will get it under control. Second, it begins to leave. Starts as a trickling; as if your head suddenly became a bad neighborhood and the real estate value plummeted. Third, it moves onto your body. You begin to sprout hairs in territories unheard of to man (well,, woman). Center of your neck, around the areola (yep) even in the booty crack. But it can be controlled. Removed. Noted. And Third, but definitely not least, it starts to turn grey. Silvery, pretty grey which is nice for a car or an appliance but not for a living human being. And with that comes this weird coarse wiry texture. One of these hairs is not like the others, no ma'am. These greys are like uninvited guests: acts out but cannot be brought under control. Will not mingle with others. Will not politely leave on their own so have to be forcefully removed. 


 Unfortunately, they did not start out invading my head. At first.  


I discovered my very first grey in the center of my beautiful 'bush garden'. Yep. My vajayjay, my p-town, my pleasure box. Down There. Front and center. Wiry long little bastard. I was appalled/disgusted/shocked as hell. I stared at it for what seemed like hours. First, by using my make-up compact tilted at weird angles (Cirque du Soleil had nothing on me) and then just standing naked in my full length mirror. Son of a bitch. I could never have oral sex AGAIN. I could never have regular sex AGAIN. Did this mean I had an old p***y? Of course. I cried. And then I immediately yanked it out as viciously as I could (NOT recommended).


When I made my discovery, I told a few of my girlfriends in horrified hush tones. And they started laughing. And laughing. My freak-out-ness amused them to tears. At a friends intimate annual Christmas party, during a game of secret santa, I received a box called "The Betty". On the front there was a cartoon line drawing of a woman's waist, hips and thighs with a triangle dead center. "The Betty" was a natural, lye-free, vaginal hair dye. And it was a bright Orphan Annie red (color: 'Red 02'). Did I mention that my hair color is 'natural black' (Hair Lie no. 42)? 


So, I used it. And it was much brighter than the box indicated. During our sexytime, my boyfriend, upon seeing it, actually produced a high pitch scream and scrambled to the other side of the bed. Clutching a sheet. Staring at me. "What the hell? Is that?". And then, with a little coaxing, he remembered. Lesson confirmed: Men will screw anything. 


After the Betty wore off, I decided to try a henna. All natural, right? Ah, no. At least not for 'down there'. More like slow simmering warm embers on a constant basis type hell. Oooof. After that wore off, I decided to shave it off entirely. If you can't see it, it doesn't exist. Felt young like a newborn baby. Except, I forgot about the growing back part. The part where you begin to rub your private parts against anything within reach like an old dog scooching his butt across the floor. Desk edge, casually front facing a wall, standing in a crushingly crowded subway car pressed up against a mans' messenger bag: aaaaahhhhh. Waxing was not an option. I once did all of that screaming to remove one and fifty marched back in its' place. Plus, I just couldn't get that ripping sound out of my head. *shiver* 


Look, it's one thing to have an errant grey hair on your chin. Pluck or pull. A grey eyelash. Pluck or pull or carefully dye. Even a grey eyebrow strand. Pluck or pull or thread. And grey hair on your head? You accept that. You expect that. And you handle that. There are entire salons dedicated to the restoration of your rich, natural color ("only She knows!"). There are gay hair dressers everywhere nodding in agreement when you say, "it's pretty, but, it ages me". There are slews of brightly lit drugstore aisles across the nation dedicated to the hiding of silver strands via color boxes 1 through 501. It is the worlds most obvious resistance movement. And I was ready, financially and spiritually. 


But the 'pleasure box'? Damn. I mean, common sense (which was now cowering way way way back in the back of my head) dictates that you will grow grey wherever you grow hair. Fine. But there are no salons dedicated to that fight. No specialists who would tell you (much less look at you), " Ah, darling, do not worry. We can restore you to your natural bush color in no time. No one will ever know the difference". There are definitely not any brightly lit drugstore aisles of vajayjay specific color to assist in this war. And no, my gyn will not do hair.


Now, I simply keep it as low as it can go while acting like it doesn't exist at all. Can't shave anymore due to the wanted posters of me. The drapes upstairs are slightly different from the curtains below (jet black sheen' (Hair Lie no. 63) versus punk rock entity). I co-exist as two people: a still relevant hot mama hanging in the upstairs residence with a silvery fox keeping time downstairs. 


And so far, we are all good neighbors. 


xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous

Surprise! Your Body Turns On...YOU.

Let me start by saying out loud I was no Jane Fonda. 


Not a very big exercise buff but I maintained over the years. Always wanted to look good, feel good inside but particularly in my clothes. Every since my youth, it was stressed that keeping fit, keeping healthy, was very, very important. It would help keep your limbs and even your mind (more on that later) limber into your old age. 


Bullshit. 


Being a City kid, there were a million ways to keep in shape. Running with wild abandon, hide and seek, hopscotch, double dutch, RCK (runcatchkiss), the President's Fitness Test (remember that?), handball. Then, as I became a young obnoxious teen, there was paddleball, tennis, swimming, dancing all night long. Adulthood beckons and so does the age of "let's get physical". Now, there were cute outfits in which I could prettily sweat while doing step aerobics,running in place, Billy Banks, yoga. When not in a gym, I was climbing mini-pyramids in exotic locales, hiking waterfalls... I had it going on. 


All bullshit. 


While away in the Bahamas for a dear friends' wedding, I was playing pretty volleyball (you know the kind, gracefully leaping with my sexy cool bathing suit on and corresponding sunglasses not breaking a visual sweat) and came down prettily on my left leg. Small snap. Burn. Ouch. My left knee begins to throb and grows alarmingly hot. Then as quickly as it began, it ends. I wave my hand, "naw, I'm okay. Don't know what happened...hahaha..". W.T.F.? 


So, it begins. Twisted island knee became the gateway for all sort of physical ailments to come marching in. Twisted knee becomes major surgery. Banging my elbow accidentally in the bedroom door frame becomes a bone chip. Accidentally stabbing myself in the eye with my mascara wand becomes Pirates of the Caribbean with eye patch and snarl. One slight twist in my high heels becomes a swollen ankle and a suggestion that I purchase "more comfortably heel height friendly shoes for a woman my age". And those are the explained injuries. 


And all those unexplained. Waking up and discovering that my pinkie toe hurts. No reason. Can't put any weight on it so I walk around all week, waddling like an umpa lumpa: heel, roll, big toe. Then, instantly, a couple of days later it stops. All's well. Until...while folding my bath towels, the base of my thumb starts to ache. Yes, the base. A week later, after many failed hand massages, it also just stops. Or, my absolute favorite: I stand up normally from leaning over the bathroom sink spitting out toothpaste foam and feel my back 'pinch'. Burn. OUCH. I really did not know your entire life depends on your back. I learned to pee standing up. Such a lady. Once again, two weeks plus, it also just stopped. Per my Doc (who I was seeing more than my live in boyfriend), my back just "seized up". No reasonable explanation. No rationale. Pay your bill at the desk. 


Per my bibles, the MORE and the O magazine, we are instructed to continue to work out, stay physical as often as possible for as long as possible. Bike, fast walk, "soft" jog (?), wear enhanced cross trainers, sweat absorption outfits, drink a ton of water. Easy on the cocktailing (harumph), stop the smoking. I do. I try. I did. I still believe that being as physically fit as possible can be nothing but positive for you in the long, seemingly long run. BUT, I also realize my body and I are no longer a team; my body is now The Boss. A mean faux leather clad dominatrix with ridiculously high heels (glad SHE can wear them)and a smoking cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth who threatens to whoop me mercilessly throughout the day. See that couch over there? My feet are killing me but it looks too low to sit on. I will never get up from there.  Those steps over.., well, anywhere? They look pretty steep. My knees will be on fire for the rest of the day. The subway pole that runs along the top above the seats? Can't hold onto that. Might throw my shoulder out with all the jerking. Downward dog yoga pose? Did you NOT listen to my back debacle? 


While I may no longer wake up and bounce out of the bed every morning, I do wake up. And if it takes me a while to moan and creak everything back to life, to squeeze myself into my spandex yoga ensemble, to lace up my super expensive no promises guaranteed trainers...well so be it.  I will admit, the uncertainty does make for an interesting day: what will work today? what won't? And really don't we just love the surprises life throws our way? *silence* Yeah. Still not really.


There is no other option. Remember that phrase "kicking and screaming"? Well, this is the screaming part. Trust me my lovelies, just approach this in the same manner as you do everything else in this decade: with a resigned sigh, a sometimes silent scream, a tiny tight smile and a big cocktail in hand. Just remember to be careful as to how you put that glass down. 


(And if you find out what 'soft jogging' is be sure to let me know. Better yet...don't.) 


xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous 

Taking Stock. And it ain't pretty...

There is a reason why your 40"s is the specific decade for the mid-life crisis. Actually, I hate that term 'crisis' cause it's not true.  It's a Clearing. Physically, emotionally and spiritually. You decide that you are carrying way too much baggage and whaddaya know, this is a short flight after all. You literally wake the f**k up. Shake your head, adjust your vision, clear your mind. 

You know that lllooonng time friend who never asks about you or your life but feels free to drone on and on about her job her career her man her lack of man her fabulosity her her her...? That co-worker who always manages to consistently avoid the workload that you both should be sharing? Hairdresser that you have had for decades that leaves you with a style that has to be restyled at home? That man in your life who is kinda in kinda out kinda treats you right kinda doesn't kinda loves you kinda don't?

Listen to me and listen to me very clearly darling: Cut. That. Shit. (C.U.T.S.)

The last thing you want or need is people around you who add nothing to your life. Why hang onto them? It's like keeping those jeans from 1995: they don't fit and they never will. Enough. Enough. Enough. I was always told that you should be able to count your really close, good friends on ten fingers - no more no less. (Note: This does not apply to everyone; there are people who you don't have to keep in constant contact with. A few days, a few weeks, a few months, a few years can go by and the next conversation picks up exactly where you left off. Those are the good ones. Give 'em a finger.)

Once the C.U.T.S program starts, there will be no stopping you. You will constantly ask yourself, why oh WHY did I not do this sooner? Answer:  It wouldn't have tasted as sweet. Now that you know who you are and what you will/will not deal with, there is a freedom that you will experience that is...well, there is no language. Stronger but similar to breathing fresh air after inhaling smoke from a passing bus or inhaling smoke from Mother Nature's garden after a long exasperating day. *silence* Yeah. It's that good.

This doesn't only apply to people; it also applies to places and things. That career that seemed like a good idea, oh twenty years ago, the one that you have invested so much life even though you are bored and unchallenged? Leave it. Take the 401K but get to stepping. Open that bar/store/brothel that you always secretly dreamed of. Your house will start to look like a monastery. A really broke monastery.  All that extra crap (waffle maker - really?) will hit the curb. Those products in your bathroom cabinet (except for the age decreasing serums of course) garbage. Hair. Long and strong? Short and quick. Don't get crazy though - gray is not okay. Clothes - oh bless us oh heavenly father - clothes from the 80"s. 90's. 00's that we persist in believing - don't stop believing- will fit or come back in style? It ain't. And it ain't.

What I speak of goes across sex lines - it happens to both women and men who are living this decade out loud. Case in point: 
I ran into a good male friend a couple of months ago who had crossed the burning sands and immediately started the C.U.T.S. He was speaking animatedly, almost a crazy babble. His hair looked slightly disheveled, his clothes (the ones that were left) did not quite match and were not quite on, his eyes darting to me and all around as he exclaimed in a stage whisper, " WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME IT WOULD FEEL THIS GOOD?" and then after a little nervous laugh he whispered to me "Oh God, am I going crazy?". Naw baby, you ain't crazy. Just really, really c l e a r.

This is the point where you will WANT to clean out your closets and clean out your life. Less literally becomes more in every way. It is the first time that housekeeping will feel completely natural to you. Roll up your sleeves, tie up your hair, grab a bottle of wine (or any alcoholic beverage) and commence to cutting. 

And please remember: gray is NOT okay.

xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous

Partay over here! Partay over ther.....zzzzzz.

Partying in your 20's:
My girlfriends and I would go out four nights a week. I would stumble into my job/career with a ringing in my ears and an ache in my head, wearing pitch black risky business type shades. Twilight before vampires were popular. Mumble hello to my receptionist, mumble morning to my bosses, weave into my office, close the door and lay on the sweetly cold floor moaning about how "I was definitely NOT going out tonight". 

At 4:30 p.m. the phone would ring. Damn. My girlfriend on the other line talking about some party we just HAD to go to at some club we HAD to go to where EVERYONE was going. Get my second wind at 5 p.m., brush my teeth in the office bathroom (I kept a toothbrush in my drawer), go to Macy*s, purchase an entirely new outfit, change in the store bathroom, jump in a cab and check my old clothes with my coat at the door. Party till the wee hours of the morning. Wear the dark shades. Stumble into work. Close the office door. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. 

"Partying" in your 40's:
Last night went out with my friend Kiks for dinner and drinks at one of our favorite restaurants. Laughed with our favorite bartender, did the whole wine/food/wine/dessert/wine thing. Felt pretty damn good (okay, slightly tipsy). Both of us looked at each other, swearing it was close to 10:00 p.m. Patting ourselves on the back for staying out ssssoooo late on a work night. Looked at our phones: 8:08 p.m. We had gotten there at six o'clock. P.M. Damn.

Going out for one night constitutes one full day of rest. Shades drawn for a dark cocoon. Ibuprofen at the ready. Maybe can venture out for food and water. Going out on consecutive nights? Sheeeeeet, that demands an IV hook-up, Valium strength ibuprofen, one full day of silent achy sleep and half of the next morning still indoors. Provisions better be at hand. When did I have to start scheduling my fun time?  

Look, I am glad not to be 20. I fully, and I mean FULLY, enjoyed my youth and everything that came with it (thank God there were no camera phones or the You Tube or the Instagram or the Facebook back then). Frankly, I am surprised that I am still alive to tell the tale(s). I understand that the body 'naturally progresses'; that I couldn't repeat those times if I tried - and trust me, some nights I do. What I don't appreciate is feeling younger but doing "older". What a mean cruel joke Mother Nature is playing on me. On us. Bitch.  

But, I ain't dead. I won't take it laying down (HA!). Neither should you. Keep on keeping on. Go against the grain, enjoy life to the fullest, hang until you can't hang anymore. And let's make a pact: If you see me nodding off in the corner, pass some smelling salts underneath my nose so I can get my ass home. And I will do the same for you. Remember, an extra IV is always in my purse. 


xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous

Who You Calling "Ma'am?"

I remember the first time it happened. 

I was crossing in the middle of the street around the back of a van and a young man was doing the same on the other side. I didn't see him until the two of us almost collided behind the van. He stopped short and said, "Whoa! That was a close one Ma'am!". And smiling, he quickly walked off. I had a smile on my face that had turned to stunned disbelief by the time I reached the sidewalk. Did I just hear him right? "Ma'am"? Naw. Heard wrong. I kept walking. 

It was like Pandoras' box had been opened. 

From then on, every damn week, every damn day, it seemed every damn minute, someone, somewhere addressed me as "Ma'am". Helping me with a price check; allowing me through the door first; waiting to pay at the register; flirting in a bar ("Ma'am, you are funny!"); EVEN ON THE PHONE. Are you kidding me? Are you f***ing kidding me? Had I previously been called ma'am and just blocked it out? And if so, dear Jesus, I was going deaf too. Calm down, calm down, everyone told me, it's just a sign of respect. But this wasn't the South. And there wasn't that much respect in the world. 

My Mother is called ma'am. As she should be; she's my MOM. I was referred to as her "lovely young daughter". Okay, I have a younger sister so not the young part but the 'lovely' made me feel young so I just put it in there. Now when I am out with my Mom it's, "Oh Mrs. X, YOU don't look old enough to have a daughter so....grown". Ha-rumph.

It bothered me when the young boys said it; it made me feel that I was past my sexual prime. Then I remembered that young men loved 'cougars' so that cheered me up immensely and I was okay with it. I simply imagined that it was their way of saying " you might be as old as my Mom, but I would still totally do you". Cool. 

But boy oh boy, it really infuriated me when the young girls said it. Lithe bodied, fresh faced, always with a slight hidden smirk behind their eyes, a sweetly dripping sarcasm in their tone that implied "step aside old bitty". Okay, okay, they didn't actually do that but it sure felt as if they were. Screw that, they probably were. And then I remembered, they are not as 'seasoned' as I am in the use of their feminine wiles (wink wink) and once again, I felt a whole lot better.  

The shock does go away. The acceptance takes a while but it does come. And then you will cease to hearing it at all. Promise. Plus, you have to prepare yourself for the next stage. 

"Yo! See that lady over there? She's the kind of MILF I would do".   

xo,
Fourty(ish) and Fabulous