Not Even a Tan Would've Helped

Don't you hate it when you're reading a text or checking Facebook on your phone and just as the back light dims you catch a glimpse of your neck waddle?  That's right, you're looking down, oblivious to the detrimental effect gravity is having on your face and neck, and just when you least expect it, you're staring at an image closely resembling Droopy Dog.

Like this, sans the cute

I'm telling you, I must have supernatural lighting in my bathroom, because most days I feel like I leave the house looking pretty okay.  But then, as I bound to the car with a (fraudulently) youthful spring in my step...I see my reflection in the car window and think, "Who brought the old chick?"

Friends, lately I just haven't been feeling very foxy.

So what do you do when you start to feel all hausfrau-y?  In my experience, you can go in one of two directions. Option I (which happens to be my favorite) is to simply say, "eff it!"  Throw your hands in the air, tell yourself you had a good run and pass the baton to the younger and hotter 30's crowd.  This scorched earth attitude comes with a license to eat carbs in excess and drink to your heart's content.  It also comes with a ponytail holder, a pair of sweat pants and a holey oversized t-shirt.

Option II would be to embrace your age and start a day-forward approach by taking preventative measures and making healthier choices: Staying out of the sun, drinking more water, working out more, wearing SPF, eating better and cutting out alcohol.  This option comes with a looser fitting and more extensive wardrobe, (you know, the stuff in the back of the closet) but does require an additional hour of primp time each morning.  The bonus, however, is that this option comes with a new, sassy attitude and THAT is something I've been missing.

Now I know I said that I preferred the June Shannon Starter Kit option, wherein I get to eat and drink myself into oblivion.  But I actually ended up doing the responsible thing and going with the health-conscious - albeit joy-deprived - route.  I began applying SPF each and every day, I started drinking more water, I incorporated the Insanity program to my workout regimen and I made better food choices.

I know, I know, I know!  So I didn't cut out the alcohol.  Unless you count the time I used scissors to get the beer out of the case box...

After a week, I started to feel better.  And when you feel better, you look at yourself differently.  So there I was - feelin' a little foxier than the week before, and just in time to attend a friend's birthday celebration.

Because I'm the procrastinator's procrastinator, I decided to get my friend's gift on my way to her birthday dinner.  This particular friend loves her some vodka, which makes gift-giving a cinch and it just so happens there was a liquor store on the way to this birthday shindig.  I pulled up to the liquor store, gave myself one last look in the mirror and entered the store feeling confident.

I scarcely got past the lime display before a smokin' hot guy working the Jack Daniel's Tennessee Honey sample table caught my attention.  Now I don't do whiskey, but I would've for this guy.  He was cute with a capital H.O.T.  Sadly, as I got closer and did some quick figuring in my head, I determined that he could've been my son had I started in my 20's.

What's this?  Hotty McHot-Hot doesn't seem to care that I'm the December to his May?

Mr. McHot-Hot stared at me as I made my way to the vodka aisle - and I mean stared.  Hey, the heart wants what the heart wants, people.  I might be 43, but I clearly still got it goin' on...  After selecting a bottle of vodka and a gift bag with HAPPY BIRTHDAY plastered on every side, I proceeded to the checkout closest to my whiskey-peddling admirer.

Here was our exchange: 

Hotty McHot-Hot: (Motioning to the birthday gift bag with a chuckle) "Hey, it's my birthday tomorrow." 

Oh, Hotty McHot-Hot, you're embarrassing yourself.  So young, so naive...don't be so obvious.

Me - (in my coolest tone)  Well, then I'll have to come up here tomorrow and get you a bottle of vodka, too.

And with that award-winning line I sauntered out of the store with a confidence no amount of water, exercise or SPF could ever give me.  My foxy was back!  I felt good.

As I bound to my car with a youthful spring back in my step, I caught of glimpse of myself in the reflection of my car window and discovered why Hotty McHot-Hot couldn't take his eyes off of me.  But this time I wasn't so focused on the wrinkles.  No, no.  That day, my wrinkles were taking a backseat to the 3 middle shirt buttons that had come undone, proudly displaying portions of my bra, my boobs and my stomach in all their 43-year-old glory.

Those unbottoned buttons did no one any favors that day.

Hell, it's not even like my bra was clean.