Given the choice, and enough money, I’d never wear clothes – or be sober – again.
Given the choice, and enough money, I’d never wear clothes – or be sober – again.
It’s all fun and games until you remember that tomorrow is Monday.
It’s unbelievable the lengths someone will go to for the sake of vanity. Case in point? This lady happily taping her neck to hide her throat wrinkles and wattles.
The inventor of this medical-grade neck wrinkle tape is no stranger to the beauty scene; she gave us the lip plumper (an adult lollipop with no flavors, basically). She is apparently a grandmother of three at the age of sixty, so there’s that.
No offense to this beautiful lady, but there is no way this tape would work for me. I superglue my fingers together every time I try to fix a vase, so I can’t imagine trying to tape my neck wattles in the back.
First, you know as well as I do that I would end up taping my hair to my neck. Doesn’t matter how carefully I pull it back, it will end up taped to my shirt, my face, the mirror, and my dog. And while this tape may not work on neck skin, I guarantee it will stick to anything and everything else. That’s just a given.
Second, I am well aware of my own luck. The tape would blow out half-way through a presentation at work, setting my epic folds free in a glorious explosion of skin and fat … I can see the slow-motion capture on YouTube now. My peers would be utterly transfixed and fascinated by my waving wattles; they couldn’t possibly be expected to take me seriously after that. The tape, under the super pressure I’d need to rein in my wrinkles, would slingshot across the room, taking out a few coffee cups on the way and smacking the new CEO square in the forehead.
Look, I’m all about women doing whatever they need to do to feel better about themselves, but neck tape? Please, ladies, just say no to neck tape.
I agree that our necks can make us look much older than we are, so I proudly introduce my own invention: wattle staples. These can be used in any common stapler, and they aren’t just for neck wrinkles! Got sagging boobs? Staple ‘em. Droopy butt? Staple it! And those obnoxious butterfly wings under your arms? Staple those, too. I have a staple for everything! Defy your age, and gravity, by Stapling It! You know, I really should be on Shark Tank with all of my fantastic ideas. I’ve got entrepreneur
stapled written all over my face.
OK, so the concept of taping your neck is actually not a new one. There are lots of other brands and uses, too. Many stars have been taping body parts for years. I applaud them for not going under the knife, but I am disappointed that they are setting the example for us common folk that aging is unnatural and evil. It’s not. I’ve earned every wrinkle, crease, and droop on my gloriously imperfect body. And so have you.
Come on, I mean, we have fake nails, fake boobs, fake butts, fake eyelashes, and even fake hair; now, we have neck tape to complete the package? Yes, feeling good about yourself is important, but why aren’t we happy with ourselves to begin with?
I blame media for setting unrealistic beauty goals for women. Aging stars are displayed in all of their perfection, looking half their age, as beautiful and timeless as money can buy. And make no mistake, money does buy youth. Age-defying stars and models probably spend more money on time-stopping surgeries than most of us will ever invest in mortgages. Even those stars who want to age gracefully are often victims of post-photo shoot airbrushing because the editor of so-and-so magazine decided they didn’t want a naturally aging woman on their cover. God forbid. Hell, even those stars who are already flawless are routinely airbrushed to create a next-level completely unattainable vision of youth and beauty.
For the rest of us, thank God there is medical-grade neck tape! Ladies (and some guys, too), do what you need to do to feel beautiful, it’s none of my business. Frankly, though, spending $16 plus shipping and handling on neck tape is a little silly when you can get duct tape at the dollar store for fifty cents. You’re welcome.
I’ve never been good at small talk.
Here I am … at my desk eating lunch — having come to the decision that venturing out in the 10 degree weather we’re currently experiencing just isn’t something I’m willing to do. At least not until my warm bed, accompanied by a steaming cup of spiked coffee with tons of whipped cream, is the destination.
So, as I’m sitting here with my cup of veggie Ramen, pondering my life’s path and the deeper meaning of the world around me, I’ve come to a personal realization that exemplifies the entirety of my frustration with the choices I’ve made thus far.
I’m getting tired of waking up and not being at the beach.
I don’t know the name of the artist, but I can tell you this, if I could, this would be front and center in my office. This is my kind of motivational artwork.
The other day, I was behind an RV on the freeway. You know the kind, the super-duper shiny house-on-wheels, towing the family car behind it. My first thought was, “That is a great way to travel for those who are too lazy to pack.” My second thought was, “Don’t these stupid things have any speeds faster than 45 mph?” My third thought was, “I could totally get behind this way of traveling, because hey, I’m too lazy to pack.”
My mind immediately wandered to joyous days on the highway, spent with my family and pets. Oh, the places we would go! The adventures we would have! The people we would meet! Just me, my loved ones, and the open road. Especially with the weather we’ve been experiencing here … dismal, cold, and just enough snow to be annoying but not enough to be fun… it would be awesome to just pick up and go someplace warmer and sunny and much less work-y.
Then, I remembered.
I hate driving. I hate wearing anything that doesn’t involve fuzzy slippers. I hate people. I’m not fond of adventures. If I’m not tuned in to social media at least hourly, I go certifiably insane. I cannot parallel park my bicycle, much less one of these behemoths. I hate driving in the rain or snow and at night; heck I hate driving on clear days, for that matter. Not to mention, my loved ones and I would potentially hurt each other if we were confined to a large tuna can on wheels for hours at a time.
Now, I’m not saying this whole idea is out the window; it still seems more appealing than say, getting bamboo shoots through my eyeballs while gargling Spam juice and listening to Polka Hits as performed by Hip Hop artists. Barely.
If I am going to be stuck in a rolling trashcan for hours and days, I fully expect some concessions.
I would need unlimited access to WiFi wherever I am. New York to the desert and everywhere in between, I need a specialized WiFi connection. I need all my bars, all the time, wherever I am. My RV will be a rolling WiFi receiver.
Speaking of bars, yes, please. A nice fully stocked bar to keep me sane on my journeys. I can think of no better way to drive down the freeway than with a glass of wine in my cup-holder. Oh. Wait, that’s not right. How about, I can think of no better way to ride down the freeway than with a glass of wine in my cup-holder and a chauffeur driving me? Not just any chauffeur, but a chauffeur who knows better than to speak to me, look at me, make eye contact, or ask questions, lest my breathtakingly introverted awkwardness come to the fore. Maybe my special RV will have the driver’s seat fully encased in sound-proof steel. Or, hey! The cone of silence!
The chauffeur’s wife will be the RV maid. For a ridiculously high sum (I mean, come on, I’m nothing if not generous), she gets to stay in a closet and come out when I am asleep, silently cleaning up behind me and making a fresh batch of waffles before joining her husband in the driver’s compartment cone of silence. She can double as the “polite one,” and engage in conversations with strangers at gas stations while I peep through the curtains and silently hate on everyone.
I would require all roadways to be clear of cars and traffic so that we can zip effortlessly through the landscapes with little to no interaction with civilized society at all. My RV will be equipped with rocket launchers to ensure my path will always be clear … and fast. No slow lanes for me.
The main thing keeping me from my Anti-Social RV road trip is money. I mean, right? I can’t help but think a fully stocked bar, unlimited WiFi or Hotspot capabilities, a well-paid maid and chauffeur, and a rocket launcher might set me back a few dollars. Suggestions on getting capital for my adventures are certainly welcome.
In the meantime, I will continue to make mean faces at the young child looking back at me through the frilly curtain in the back of this slow-moving RV. Hmmm. It seems I can be just as anti-social without the RV, after all.