A 50 year old woman is not much different than a 22 year old girl

Okay, we all know that is a big, fat lie -- a 50 year old woman is supposed to be far different from her 22 year old self. However, in my case, I seem to have been passed over by the maturity gene. I found myself just the other night sitting on my bed in the near dark because I ran out of replacement light bulbs, and the light next to my bed was dark. And I needed light because I was using my manicure scissors to pull the teeney, tiny black thread stitches out of the also black lining of my black sheath dress that fits almost perfectly except across my butt, my hips and my gut.

Some might say - "don't wear it to work tomorrow." Others might add "or go sit somewhere that has more light to pull out the stitches." HA! Both those solutions are for amateurs! I managed to do what I needed to, while at the same time marveling at how hot Andy Garcia still is as I watched a PBS special on Cuban music.

So, to skip to the end of the story -- I squeezed myself into the sheath not unlike a sausage into its casing, and wore it with a chunky pearl necklace, a black ruffled cardigan and black pointy-toe sling backs the next day -- couldn't decide if I was totally stylin' or looked like an Italian widow.

The point of my story? This is pretty much a typical night for me. Sadly, I never have the proverbial light bulb when I need the light. I wonder if it is because I am single? That I wing it basically all the time because I can? Or would I be the same way even with a bossy husband and a bunch of kids? Probably.