Being a natural (ahem) blonde, I have never worried much about grey hair. When I go to my hair stylist it is generally to have her put the blonde back into my once naturally light hair. I have never bothered standing before a mirror to search for grey hair. If I did happen to spot one, I would probably dance a jig, as it is one less hair I would have to pay to have lightened. That being said, I am not immune to the ravages of time. As my children like to keep pointing out.

But I’m a strong, independent woman, who does not place her entire self-worth on the image staring back at her in the mirror.

Shut up, Boo. This is my blog and I don’t need your laughter ringing in my ears.

I understand that wrinkles are just memories smiles have left behind.

Really, does anyone believe this crap?

I can get behind the lines in the mirror without wanting a little shot of the botulism virus to make me feel better. I can adjust my once pert and perky boobs, thanks to the miracle of under wire. And if my bottom wants to spread a little, well, that’s okay too. Isn’t that what support underwear is for?

But I have to draw a line in the sand somewhere.

And that line has been drawn. Right under my chin.

Where a wayward black hair has pushed it’s way through my milky white skin and protrudes like a thirteen year-old boy wearing sweat pants while watching the cheer squad practice their splits.

I have my very own whisker.

I’ve tried plucking the damn thing. It just keeps coming back. Uninvited and unannounced. (Like my mother-in-law. Hmmm…)

Waging a war on one lone whisker, I seem to have lost this battle. I wonder each time I pluck the damn thing, if three more are going to come and replace it. I wonder if I will wake one morning to discover that I am the bearded lady all the kids want to see when the carnival comes to town.

As if it is not an indignity in itself that my once firm jaw line has gone a little soft. A little less firm. In a few years, it may start to resemble the ole turkey waddle. Now I have to deal with a renegade hair that wants to draw attention to this fact?

Perhaps I should just give up. Embrace my new look. Grow out my little chin hair.

And when it gets long enough, I can put a bead on it and make music with the wind.

I can start a whole new trend.

Matching beads on my boobs with the chin bead as an accessory.

I’m so sexy.

***Edit: Okay, dear internet, for all you fellow bloggers who have informed me of the dreaded neck whiskers, I concede to you. That is much scarier. And neurotic. (As I now stare in the mirror every two seconds to see if I’ve sprouted one yet!)***

I have found in my thirty one years there are rare, exceptional pleasures to living on this rock known as Earth. The first electric kiss you share with your partner, the first time your baby smiles into your eyes, getting an unexpected tax refund or even being told your mother-in-law is moving out of province. (I can only dream about that last one….)

Likewise, I have also realized there are always definite certainties. Beyond death and taxes. Some things should always be avoided, because they will never bring pleasure; only disappointment and perhaps pain.

Choosing to eat Chinese food in a small Alberta town where there is only three liquor stores, a post office/general store/feed mill combination and a handful of unkempt houses, ought to be one of those definite certainties. Upon entering, you know it won’t taste good and will most certainly end in the manner of you clutching your sides, moaning about death and becoming best friends with the nearest porcelain throne.

Yet you proceed anyways.

Welcome to my world, dear internet.

As if the injustice and indignity of having to suffer through a three day parenting course out in the wilds of Alberta wasn’t enough, my lovely government choose to punish us potential parents by ensuring the location of said parenting course was in a town small enough that you can’t find it on a map. A town with few means of nourishing yourself. A town where you either took your chances with the gas station vending machine and a slightly suspect, nearly green, ham sandwich with no expiry date on the packaging, or you rolled the dice and tried the local restaurant. It was a crap shoot either way.

Pardon the pun, dear internet.

It was like adding insult to injury, after ingesting the questionably brewed coffee and poorly disguised dog-food they tried serving to us parents.

And the end result of my three day weekend to learn how to parent a special needs child? Well, I can’t say I learned much about parenting a special kiddo that I didn’t already know.

But I did learn this small town was unusually rodent free and didn’t seem to have a dog in sight.

Hmmm….

Good morning, dear internet. As you are relaxing, drinking your coffee and reading your morning papers, I am stuck in purgatory. Drinking badly brewed coffee, playing tic-tac-toe and hangman with my darling Boo, while some government nitwit is preparing us for adopting a special needs child.

You see the irony here, right dear internet?

But never one to let a little bureaucratic red tape foil my plans, I will happily listen to her drone on and on about the needs of a handicapped child. And when she is finished, I am driving straight to the local liquor store (or since this is small town Alberta, straight to the local hotel) and buying myself a stiff drink. Because Boo and I will have earned it. Three days of listening on how to become effective advocates, efficient role models and ultimately, good parents.

And I didn’t learn a damn thing.

Now let me have my new baby.

In honor of this momentous occasion, I have found a pun for you. A picture pun.

Because a picture is worth a thousand words, right?