Taste the Rainbow of Depends®

by LOLA TUCKER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

This image stolen from some old broad.

I can see menopause from my back door. What a crappy view.

For those of you who were unaware of the newly designated National Day of Mourning, let me be the first to bring you the news. From now on, my birthday shall officially be known as That Old Broad’s Pity Party. I even called my Congressman and had him bring it to the floor for a vote. Congress can’t agree on much these days, but they certainly could agree on one thing — that redheaded chick that lives in Manassas, Virginia? SHE IS GETTING OLD! I love bipartisan spirit. Please send your condolence cards directly to my home. I will be there, crying in my dirty martini and applying wrinkle cream with a putty knife.

I’m not really sure how this happened, but it sure did happen quickly. One day I was partying like a rock star with my rock star friends, all of us pretending like we were important and in charge of the world. The next day, my 11-year-old daughter was referring to me as “pre-elderly” and laughing at the music I listened to “back in the day.” WTF?

I don’t feel old. I’d like to think I don’t LOOK old, but apparently — to an 11 year old — I appear ancient. She probably thinks I’m in the beginning stages of Alzheimers, which is quite possible since I can’t remember shit anymore. I wonder when she’ll start looking at nursing homes for her ailing mom. I hope she picks a place in a warm weather climate, as
cold weather at my age has also become truly unappealing. It should be illegal to have arthritic hips in your forties.

Actually, I was watching television the other day and was thoroughly excited to learn that Depends undergarments were now available in different colors. Wow, wardrobe choices for those of us who are approaching incontinence. By the way, sneezing is already a risky bladder proposition. It should really be hoot in four or five years. All I know is, I hope Depends come in red. I have a sexy red bra, and I’m pretty sure the matching thong will be an unwise option in upcoming years.

I will, however, draw the line at those ugly orthopaedic “walking shoes” and elastic waist pants. If, at some point, I am
no longer able to hobble around in five-inch heels, then I shall have my husband Bill push me around in a wheelchair while wearing my stilettos. (That’s me in the stilettos, by the way, not Bill.) Likewise, I’ll just keep a blanket over my lap and skip the pants altogether. Another reason the red Depends would make a nice loud fashion statement.

The truth is, getting older would be much more enticing if it wasn’t such a ridiculously young world. Everyone is 12, for shit’s sake. Singers. Models. Celebrities. Hell, some of them aren’t even OLD enough to party like our generation did, and those who do, well, they end up in rehab, jail or both. I don’t remember anyone my age going to rehab — or jail — for having a good time. We partied responsibly. Or at least smarter than the current batch of twentysomething whiners.

I’d also like to see more runway models who are middle-aged or older in New York, Paris and Milan, flaunting their cellulite and saggy breasts. How much fun would that be? We should bring back all the gorgeous models of the ’70s and ’80s and stick them on the catwalk without the benefit of makeup, hair dye or plastic surgery. Just them, in all their natural glory. Now THAT’S quality reality television. Be honest, you’d DVR that bitch, wouldn’t ya? I know I would.

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