Saturday, December 21, 2013

Dear Santa:

It’s almost the end of another glorious year of fun and frolic. As I look back, I am proud to say I have laughed more than cried, eaten more than drunk, played more than cleaned, created more than complained, and I have not yet done great bodily harm to Mr. Wonderful. 

This year, I celebrated a milestone birthday. I am happy to say I am healthy, limber and can still turn a head or two. Of course, the heads were liver-spotted and crusty, but who’s checkin’?

I can still walk tall in my stilettos, and I haven’t misplaced my keys for more than a week at a time. I still invite people to the house; however, sometimes I forget to be there. I still entertain, but Mr. Wonderful wishes I wouldn’t do it on the sidewalk. 

I can still find my car in the parking lot, and I always remember to buy his applesauce and cranberry juice. I belong to several organizations, and sometimes I wear the correct badge to the meetings. I refuse to answer to “senior,” and I hang out with Gen-Exers, so people think I’m cool.

I watch the news, listen to NPR and down some vitamin D each day. I work out six or seven times a week, and I can still walk the next day. I have no aches or pains other than those created by loud sounds from the adjacent pillow.

I know how to text, sext and flirt, and my selfies are age-appropriate. My blog is getting a little risqué, but the hits seem to be increasing exponentially. (I don’t know what that means, but I love the sound of all those syllables.) Some people think I’m funny, but Mr. Wonderful is still a hold out. He grimaces, snorts and rolls his eyes at my prolific prose. Little does he know that I modified his inheritance last week. Emily Van Camp has nothing on moi.

So, Santa, I hope you have some goodies in that bag for me. When I wrote to you at the NP, I just listed the essentials, but feel free to add any bonus gifts. In case you forgot, I’d like a trip to Italy, a little red Porsche and a diamond tiera. Come on, big guy, I haven’t got much time left.