On the Edge of the 17th

Despite looking like a Playboy Bunny at 19, I've never met a republican rich enough worth marrying. 

I imagine on February 17th, when I turn 30, my body will suddenly melt, and I'll walk around with a turkey neck and jowls... 

My unmentionables will fit me like sausage casing...  

The men who liked me last year will suddenly be dating women two years younger, 15lbs lighter, and two inches taller...  

Sugar Daddy qualifications will officially be at the 50+ mark... 

The milk in the 'fridge will shift from 2% to 1%...  

When teenage boys point me out to their friends in Fred Meyer's, I'll be referred to as "the cougar"...  

If I smile and wave back, I'll be referred to as "the pervert"...  

Long bangs and tinted glasses will be my style again, not to mask a glassy stare, but crows feet and dark bags...  

Married men will admit to being married...  

My premature graying will no longer be considered "premature"... 

Women my age will be pregnant with their second child... 

I will find myself singing along to music in department stores...  

Juniors clothes will look ridiculous on me...

and so on.