The Contents of My Purse

I think it will be the bane and boon for every woman over the age of 44: the well-stocked purse.  You know…the middle-aged woman who works with you in your office; the go-to lady when you have a headache, an acidic stomach, or your button has fallen off and you’ll get either a safety pin, or some highly skilled tailor services for free and said button is repaired.  When disaster befalls your office, she is the one with some chocolate to soothe the nerves, and perhaps, even, a book that materializes out of her magic bag to distract or inform the beleaguered office worker.

Ah, yes. A random pic of the interior of my purse to illustrate my point. Beanos, hand sanitizer, aspirin, cough drops, kleenex, and I know there’s Immodium and Tums in there somewhere!

After all the services you have received from her, there is still a little joke that runs around the office about her age. Yes, the old lady’s purse, and the more she carries, the older she is. And you will never do that, because you’ll be young forever…Or something to that effect.

Yet here I am, carrying, in effect, the contents of a pharmacy. (See image) I have also come to the conclusion that, as I grow older, I don’t care what the young ones think; I’m a middle-aged woman who doesn’t want to feel uncomfortable just so I can be hip, because that’s not happening no matter what I do!

So go ahead and feel smug in your youth. Make the jokes, because I’m going to laugh at them also, knowing eventually, the joke is ultimately on all of us!

Sick…still

Just sitting here in my jammies, listening to the patter of rain as it falls on the leaves.  As I cough up phlegm and examine the results, my dogs are courageously fighting their cabin fever by alternately chewing on old rawhide and tormenting the cats.

Valiantly working what's left of that rawhide
Valiantly working what’s left of that rawhide
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Abused tissue box…

 And another tissue finds its way to the wastebasket already overflowing with used tissues.  Ew.

A small, child-like part of me wonders if I will ever recover, whereas the experienced adult chides the younger, inner self with Alright, Drama Queen.  It’s just a cold.

Just a cold.  Such a dismissive way to describe the way I feel right now.  *pout*

I hate being sick!