Can you even see this post since it was written by an older woman?

Listen up. I’ve got a few more years to be lovable and I’m not going to waste them. I didn’t realize that when a woman hit 50, she ceased to elicit any feelings of any kind except the feeling of ewwww.

But apparently it’s a thing and it’s total science, like it’s up there with the time President Donald Trump said California only needed to rake its forests to prevent fires. That’s why his announcement today to cut all FEMA funding to California for wildfire management makes science sense.


But enough about that brilliant man, let’s get to this brilliant man. Of course this assessment comes from a man (obvs since men do science and women do nails) who knows stuff because he’s like 50 and all wizened with the wisdom that comes for 50 years of being encouraged to open his man hole and spout his man knowledge.


French author Yann Moix told Marie-Claire, the French version, that he can’t even see women 50 and over. That’s likely because eyesight is one of the first things to go as one ages. And he’s 50.

Younger bodies were more interesting, he mused as his increasingly aging balls sagged even lower.

“I like them. They way they have tits and ass, and I think that is all. There is a face? Maybe?” he said, getting up from the couch his knees snapping and creaking from the effort. He grunted a painful “Oof” and rubbed his knees. Jesus Christ, his knees ached. He wondered if it was gout from all the foie gras he consumed.

Gout affects older men. Yann Moix is 50.

“I like bodies, preferably Asian bodies,” he stated as he realized he peed a little in his pants. His prostate pressed against his bladder; these “accidents” seemed to keep happening more often.

Because he is 50.

He continued to pontificate about his Asian preferences as if he were talking about an assortment of Starbursts™ and non-Asian women 50 and over are the orange and yellow ones. And the Asian women 50 and over are the orange and yellow ones.

He said he was the prisoner of his tastes, one that preferred women to come to him in a box with different parts that he could assemble like a younger body Asian potato head.

“I don’t have to answer to any taste police,” he harpied as the bile rose in the back of his throat. Heartburn becomes more prevalent as one ages.

And Yann Mois has a non-young, non-Asian body that is 50 and possibly invisible.

“Maybe older women could provide some use, no? If they could go to some factory and be grounded up into dust that could be used to make younger Asian bodies?” He stopped for a minute and shuddered. “Still disgusting. And unlovable.”

Mois left the Marie Claire offices and stumbled onto the sidewalk. Unable to see the crush of 50-year-old bodies, but yet could feel something non-younger pressing against him. He panicked and ran into the street, and was promptly run over by an Uber driven by a non-Asian 57-year-old woman.

“I couldn’t see him,” she told police.


This Will Put Hair On Your Chest

Chest hair symbolizes “masculinity” according to some horribly vapid article I skimmed on the Internet.

It can be caused by drinking whiskey, eating sardines and spreading maple syrup on your chest, according to a variety of Internet answer sites I perused. Apart from the maple syrup, I can’t imagine why I now sport three chest hairs.

Some of you may be unsurprised because some of you think I’m a dude. It’s likely my compulsion to take incessantly about my penis that has led to that incorrect assumption.

My chest hair was pointed out to me a few weeks ago. I finally wore something other than my usual ensemble:

I like to be the yin to my own yang.

I like to be the yin to my own yang.

The shirt, while it did nothing to accentuate my grape-sized chest, it highlighted the three chest hairs in all their glory.

Unlike these photos:

This is my hand. I was trying to turn the iTouch around when I snapped this.

This is my hand. I was trying to turn the iTouch around when I snapped this.

Here's part of my chest. Not the part with the hair. This was the best of 15 shots.

Here’s part of my chest. Not the part with the hair. This was the best of 15 shots.

I finally went with the computer camera. I'm yanking on one of the hairs.

I finally went with the computer camera. I’m yanking on one of the hairs.

The following day, the friend asked me if I got rid of my hair. I hadn’t. I was fearful that if I shaved, I would wake up the next morning looking like the love child of Alec Baldwin and Robin Williams. Also, I’m really lazy.

Is it a sign of aging? Aging is such a wonderous thing–what with the depletion of all energy, the realization that your life is a series of inconsequential failures, and the inability to extract oneself from furniture without grunting like a tennis player. It was upon turning 35 that a wirey hair began growing out of my neck. My darling child never fails to pipe up about “mommy’s mustache.”

I’m still not sure what to do with them. Bleach them? Pluck them? Instagram them?

I am at a loss. Luckily unitard season begins in a few weeks.