March 02, 2015



Source: Shutterstock

I”€™ve never been a fan of Madonna’s music or her bitchy Catholic girl personality, but I am a big fan of female pubic bushes, and she had a splendiferously lush one back in the day. There are literal beavers”€”and several adult otters”€”that are smaller than that frisky critter she was rockin”€™ atween her legs.

Assuming she doesn”€™t shave and wax these days”€”probably a bad assumption, because I”€™ll bet she funds the livelihoods of at least two dozen “€™round-the-clock vaginal cosmeticians”€”I would imagine that her bush is now grey. It’s sad. Really, it is.

I am only three years younger than Madonna, so by the current rules, I think I”€™m allowed to make these jokes at her expense. But as with most comedy, it’s rooted in anguish. This is the age where your body has so many miles on it, you require increasing medical attention and start doing yoga because the thought of dying scares you numb.

I have no idea whether most people feel this way, but inside I always feel the same age. Inside, it’s always dreamtime. It’s always the same eternal/internal bubble-encased self. But then one day you realize that the vehicle you”€™ve been driving all these years is starting to get worn.

Nearly ten years ago I was driving through the rolling mountains and precious tiny villages along Route 6 in northern Pennsylvania. It occurred to me that it took until my mid-forties before I”€™d seen this gorgeous scenery for the first time. And then, like an icicle stabbing me in the heart, the thought struck me that I would probably never see it again. Unless I make it past 100, right now I probably have more years behind me than I do ahead of me. And that’s a chilling thought. So whenever some whippersnapper begins disparaging us old folks”€”and I did it too when I was younger”€”I grit my teeth, smile inwardly, and think, “€œOne day you”€™ll know what it feels like”€”that is, if you don”€™t die trying.”€


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