In case you forgot

Imperatrix was right. Photo Booth is addictive. It also feels self-absorption enabling, when I sit there and take pictures over and over, deleting until I get one that doesn't seem entirely heinous.

Not surprisingly (considering my recent state of being), I'm feeling old and battered. Looking at the picture I've posted, I just see the bags and lines. I'm glad that the turtleneck I've got on hides my the extra chin that's conspiring to wrap around my neck until it chokes me dead. It makes me want to get more of them.

(BTW, I'm slightly freaking out, because even though I want to explore these thoughts, I worry that it will make those of you who read and know me want to reassure me that no, no, no you really are cute, stew, and it's OK. I actually know that, though, and let me just make it clear that I'm not fishing. Heh. The logical part of me does accept that I'm not in the least ugly.)

These unfavorable thoughts didn't just stop me, though, from flashing a bright, honest smile at the cute, presumably unmarried* guy across from me who is absorbed in reading a huge stack of what looks to be research papers.

Oy, I still have a headache.

*Of course there's no telling if he a) has a girlfriend or even b) whether he'd ever have a girlfriend.

New addition, 12:45 p.m.
Deposited checks, and miraculously walked into a busy salon and snapped up a no-show's appointment. $50 later....