I have an undying sense of humor despite my repeated attempts to bash its little head in.

In truth, I don't wish my sense of humor dead - I don't wish to murder it in the most gruesome way because my sense of humor is about the only constant in my life and also because let's face it, you have to laugh. No, I'm not trying to be the boss of you, wise ass, I'm just sayin' you have to because the alternative - rocking and cutting yourself - while something to do while sitting alone, is not socially acceptable. There's no crying in baseball Tom Hanksey McHankerson. Or pretty much anywhere else either.

And that's why it's not easy being a woman of a certain age. Like me. Well, it's not easy being a woman like me at any age, but certainly getting older adds another level of challenge. And horror. For one thing, crying is harder as you age. When I was a child - an Irish redheaded terror, I would drop to the floor and perform a display of tantrum throwing the likes of which never before seen on earth. I had two shows daily and a Saturday matinee. And after each show I'd wipe my eyes, grab myself a box of Junior Mints, down a cold Moxie and happily return my attention to Barbie and Midge who were getting ready for the prom, but let's face it there was only one Ken doll and Midge didn't have a chance. Still, I dressed her up all pretty like so that she wouldn't give up on life before she at least attempted to hide the freckles with make up and add some highlighting to her natural shade of rodent brown.

Now, after throwing a rather pathetic fit of rage, which really only amounts to flopping on the sofa, my whole body limp, one shoe falling off, it takes days to recover. Come to think of it, that "fit of rage" appears more like surrender, and when I say surrender I'm not talking about the new-agey let go and let God kind, I'm talking about the I fucking give up kind.

There's this store in the mall called Sephora. I'm sure a lot of you women out there know about this little goldmine. It's full of the highest priced top of the line skin products and makeup. They specialize in products for difficult skin, which includes all problems associated with aging. Every time I've walked by it (I've only gone in once and nearly fainted when I got the credit card bill) it's mobbed. Puffy eyed red-faced women sniffling and grabbing little tubes of stuff. I did happen to get this great yellow stick thing which hides anything red, which really came in handy the time Fatso and I decided to pretend we were 16 again and he left a telltale mark on my neck. Anyway, some genius - probably a woman over 50 - realized that if she didn't get these products together in one convenient place, the world was going to be overpopulated with bulgy eyed creatures who scare little children in public places. So. Sephora was born. And now we can slap some specially formulated cream on our distorted faces and once again brave the elements which, lets face it, were probably responsible in some part for our misery in the first place.

was I ---oh yeah. Sense of humor. I spare my sense of humor's life repeatedly because it's the equivalent of those little arm floatee things I used to put on my kids before they went "swimming." Or went in the wading pool, the tub, or drank a large glass of water. These floaties aren't (and the warnings repeatedly remind you of this fact) approved floatation devices - you can't rely on them to save your life you if you should be thrown fall overboard into the frosty Atlantic or if your cruiseship hits an iceberg and starts to sink to the bottom of the sea but they do allow your almost swimming-by-him/herself toddler to practice all the moves in preparation for the day when he/she will no longer need them to stay afloat.

Yeah, my little yellow airbags of humor are holding my head just above water while I wave my arms and kick my feet like a fool. And I don't care as long as eventually I get to the other side of the pool.

There's also the endorphin aspect of it, which if I had mentioned earlier would have made this whole piece completely unnecessary and much less entertaining. You are being entertained, right? No? Yeah? Well, if not - don't let me keep you.

I'll see ya next time.

Lovemonkey wears her swimmies in the shower

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