I would love to be the lady with the shiny red sweater who insists upon wearing her watch on the outside of her sleeve and cinches her waistline with a fannypack loaded with prescription painkillers. However, I cannot bring myself to smell of mothballs and Chanel.

I would love to be the man who speaks with full bravado while sporting a curly mullet and, what I like to call, a molestache. But I suppose I was fortunate to be born a female so I wouldn’t have to make complicated facial-hair decisions. I simply have to wax.

Wouldn’t it be exciting to be the crazy lady in the front row of every meeting who shouts like people three rows back seem to care about the memoir she is writing about her life with thirty cats? If only my teeth were a little less straight and my hair was artificially dyed raspberry.

As I sit in the back row, packed in with amusing eccentricities, I contemplate the crazy old lady I will become in thirty years and if I’ll dye my hair, wear the skin of a plush animal stolen from my grandkid’s room, or smear lipstick around the fading lines of my youth.

I hope to God – yes.

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