Goodbye Wrinkles. Hello Wiggles.

I’m pleased to announce that my wrinkles are disappearing. Apparently all this moisturizing, lotion-using and salmon consumption has had a real positive effect on my skin. How can I be so sure?

For starters, over the past few months people have been accusing me of getting younger and younger. (That’s for enders too. I don’t have anymore evidence beyond that.)

First, there was a lady at the gym. I was chatting with her about something (probably the annoying trainer, who, by the way, I deterred yesterday by listening to Frank's iPod). I guess I mentioned that I was 29 and she said, “I can’t believe that. I thought you were like 22--24 at the most!”

See? There’s five-seven years. Just wiped off my face.

Then, the other day I was at Costco, buying things that must be purchased in bulk (beer, champagne and milk). Since I put my Costco card on top of the beer I was surprised when the checker said, “Do you have your ID?” I pointed to my Costco card and said, “I put it right there.” She said, “No, your ID.” My driver’s license? Why on earth would she need to see that?

How sad. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve been carded. I didn’t even know what she meant.

She obviously thought I was 20 (or maybe younger). There’s nine years. Poof!

My third example took 26 years off my real age:

Frank and I were at the neighborhood pool and we started talking to this man and his adorable daughter, Yasmin. I asked her how old she was and she said, “I’m three. How old are you?” Frank answered for me: “Just add a zero to that.” Being a smart little girl she said, “Oh, you’re three too!” I said, “Yes. Yes, I AM three!”

Then she totally invited me to her birthday party. I told her I would definitely come, provided I could have a corner piece of cake with lots of icing. I also told her my cupcake-stealing story to which she sympathized (and subsequently glared at Frank, my evil, much older husband). We discussed The Wiggles, country music (she’s a big Keith Urban fan) and the fact that we both had on pink bathing suits. Since it was late (and almost our bed times) I told my new gal pal goodbye with the standard bed bugs warning.

Yep. Three is definitely my favorite fake age. I think I’ll stick with it for awhile. But I'll have to invest in A LOT more moisturizer.

Me, hanging with my more mature, five-year-old pal, Maddie.