A very personal letter

I am 35. Middle-aged. It’s okay, I don’t see the point in fighting age. I mean, honestly, what are you going to do about it? There is no youth serum. Botox is poison and I wait for the day when medical science wakes up and suddenly realises our vanity is, literally, poisoning us. Let me not stray into serious medical argument territory though, it’s Friday afternoon and I’ve had a hurley-burley weekend of emotional roller-coaster for some reason.

I just came here to write a quick letter, you know how I love them. This one is personal. Highly so. I had not realised, when hearing people speaking of ‘Middle-aged Spread’, quite how literal it was. Good grief. Thus, the letter:

Dear Shiny’s Thighs,

You have been shining (ahem) examples of thighs for the past thirty five years and for that I am truly thankful. In my teenage/early twenty years you even got some pretty fabulous compliments from various admirers, especially after a long summer in the sun when you turned a fabulous golden-brown.

However, this new thing of yours of spreading, like large gloops of peanut butter and syrup off the edges of a hot slice of toast, as I sit, is completely unacceptable. At no stage, ever, in my life have I literally spilled over the side of any chair and I'm not happy about starting now. I fear that you and our butt (also a compliment-elliciting feature in its heyday) may be in cahoots with this – it sliding around to help you out…

Frankly, I wish to hear no apportioning of blame. I would just like you to stop it. Immediately. If not sooner.

Your ever-loving,
Shiny x

P.S. Please pass the message on to our butt too. Thank you.

I wonder if they'll listen?