​The seven ages of a woman

In her opinion, the seven ages of a woman are: baby, infant, junior miss, young woman, young woman, young woman, young woman.

She claims her age is her own business. Poor thing, she’s practically out of business.

She reckons her age by light years-she’s sure light a few years.

When the census taker asked her how old she was, she couldn’t remember whether she was forty-two or forty-three, so she said thirty-five.

She hasn’t lost the years she’s subtracted from her age; she’s just added them to the ages of her sisters-in-law.
Birthdays are occasions that her child deserves, her husband observes, and she preserves.

Birthdays are anniversaries on which her husband takes a day off, and she takes a year off.

She’s very loyal. Years ago she reached an age she liked, and she has stuck to it.

When it comes to telling her age, she’s shy-about ten years shy.

At twenty-one, she was chosen Miss America. In those days, there were very few Americans.
She won’t put the right number of candles on her birthday cake.

It wouldn’t be a birthday party-it would be a torchlight procession.

She’s aged more than her husband, but less often.

As long as she’s capable of juggling figures, she’ll never be old.

She uses the count-down method of calculating age.

She’s a nice age-thirty-five, especially since she happens to be forty-three.

She has a twin brother who is practically identical, except for one minor detail-he’s forty-nine and she’s thirty-nine.

Her husband is a diplomat. He remembers her birthday and forgets her age.

When she hesitated to state her age on the witness stand, the judge said, “Hurry, madam, every minute makes it worse.”

She’s celebrating the tenth anniversary of her thirty-ninth birthday.
The only time she ever gave her right age was on a safari when she was captured by a fussy cannibal who never ate anyone past forty.

She’s in her early flirties.

She knows how to hang on to her youth-she never introduces him to other women.

She finally admitted she was forty, but she didn’t say when.

Forty has been the most difficult age for her to pass-it’s taken her eight years.
She’s living it up, saying, “You’re only young once.” It’s time she thought up some other excuse.

She was eighteen and her husband thirty when they met. Now he’s sixty, so she figures since he’s twice as old as he was then, she must be thirty-six.

She’s afraid to grow old, but at forty she really need have no fear of aging. She’ll outgrow it fifteen years from now-when she’s forty-eight.

Her hardest decision is when to start middle age.

She doesn’t have an enemy in the world-she’s outlived them all.

10 thoughts on “​The seven ages of a woman

  1. Now see…. I LIKE being old. And cranky. And unapologetic. ALL of my gray hairs have names on them, and I am proud to have survived all of the attempts on my livelihood, health, and reputation. I am as old as the rocks and twice as unpredictable. I will speak my mind, show you my scars, and waddle proudly to my next great destination in life!

    Liked by 2 people

  2. This is a lovely post! So enjoyed it. I like the idea of picking an age you liked and then sticking to that age no matter what anyone says. I think I’ll be…well, that’s my secret. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s