There are a few things they don't tell you when you're approaching the big four-oh, let alone what's going to happen to your body as you stumble your way through your forties. I'm forty-seven now, and I tremble in fear of what forty-eight has in store for me. This is just one of the lovely things about being over forty:
The first thing that changes when you leave your thirties? Your boobs. Your love bags. Those things on the front of your chest that used to be perky and bright. Remember them?
Yeah, I hope you took a picture. They'll never look like that again without a shit-ton of plastic under your skin.
Now, don't get me wrong. I like my boobs just fine. But perky only happens with my ponytail these days. At my age, a booby check isn't to look for lumps. Nope. That's called a booby squish, aka a mammogram. Nope. A booby check is to make sure my nipples are both facing the same direction.
And can we mention sag? Oh, yeah. I love the thought that by the time I'm sixty I'll be able to tuck them into my waistband.
Hmm. Then again, it might save me some money...