A Letter to My Other Mother

Dear Mother Nature,

I will not be turning 50 this January,

and there is nothing you—or Father Time—can do

to make me.

I will stop having

birthdays and parties that

celebrate yet another year

gone—to the tune of

“Happy Birthday to You”

I’ll no longer acknowledge

the lines that are being added

to my face making me look

like a child’s drawing

of an Oak tree.

I will use “push up” push up bras,

to combat the sagging egos of

Lilly and Lillibet.

Hopping up and down,

I will shove myself

into those spanxy underwear

that leave me with no

room to exhale, let

alone inhale the truth that I’m fat

enough to need them.

The only thing I will allow

you to take from me is

old Aunt Flo

since you can never

count on her to

be there when you

need her, and

she always shows up

at the most inappropriate

times.

As for my hair,

I will just keep

coloring it

to Loreal Essence #18

Mahogany Brown.

I will draw in more eyebrows

as time begins to pluck

them out one

by one.

No longer will you control my moods,

or entice people into thinking

I’m nuts with all my hot flashes.

I shall dispose of your evidence by swirling it

down the drain every time “Calgon takes me away.”

Instead, I will cast you onto some

unsuspecting wisp of a girl who

passes by, her blonde hair blowing about

in the wind, pink pouty lips

and showing more cleavage than the

Grand Canyon.

With a touch of my

Hand I will pass you

to her and smile to myself,

knowing that the days

of her life have now been

counted as well.