Weighty matters...

School is out, over, finito, adios. Whatever happens, I finished, albeit on a sour note. Geology lab final was a bitch, no other way to put it, and I didn't do well at all. Like, total meltdown. Just hope my body of work to date will keep me in the B range, but, oh well. Now thinking about other terribly important things, like why aren't there any magazines for us sizzling, sexy sixty-something silver foxes? I see lots of stuff for the fabulous forties, and even the still fabulous fifties. But I seem to be relegated to the AARP rag, which, by the way, has a picture of the 64-year-old Paul McCartney on the cover, looking pretty, well, old. What do they think happens to us after sixty? Are we all supposed to turn into Aunt Bea, who, by the way, was probably in her forties when she was ministering to Sheriff Andy and little Opie. I for one refuse to spread out like a banana-nut muffin and wear my gray hair in a sensible bun. Oh, nonono. In fact, I just went violently auburn, on the verge of punk. I could star in one of those computer generated movies like Charlese or Kate. OK, it's a little more Raggedy Ann than Brie Vandercamp, but I like it. Everyone knows I color my hair, anyway. Why not be audacious? And, hell, Paul's single again. Wonder if he likes redheads? Blonds have not been lucky for him.