Like any woman over 50, I won't deny feeling a sense of pride when someone thinks I'm in my late thirties, but it's not that big of an achievement when that person is of the male persuasion and I am revealing a little cleavage. Most men's eyes can't make it up to your face if there's decolletage. I could be wearing a sinus mask and fake pirate's moustache, and they'd never notice.
I prefer to be mistaken for a five-year-old. For one thing, I don't have to work so hard. Trying to be thirty requires not only the proper bra, but suspension of most of my usual beliefs. "You're a 37-year old man looking for a quality woman for a long term commitment by trying to pick me up in the grocery store parking lot? No, there's noting off-putting about that..."
Being five, on the other hand, just requires an attitude adjustment and some pigtails. The pigtails help because every time I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or window, I remember to lighten up and find something to giggle about. The attitude adjustment is a little harder, but skipping down the street usually gets the right set of chemicals going in my brain to make me think more like the flexible, easily awestruck, openly curious, and always laughing child I am on the inside.
No amount of Botox or plastic surgery can help you pass for five. That's an inside job.
