By Cindy Moy, founder of Hot Flash Sisters
My friend Char is a couple of decades older than me and has faced hurdles in life that would have sent me crawling under the covers and refusing to come out. She jokes that if she ever writes her memoir she’s going to call it Life: You Can’t Make This Sh** Up.
As another birthday approaches and I head to New York City to celebrate with co-birthday girl (and Hot Flash Sisters blogger) Katrina Woznicki, I think about what I would call my memoir if I ever write one.
My friend, Sue, and I often commiserate over tales of crazy relatives. She says she would call her memoir, Please, God, Tell Me We’re Not Related.
The Sis narrowed it down to either Home Perms, Aunt Flo, and Other Lies My Mother Told Me or My Search for the Perfect Body, Career, Husband and Shoes. But Mainly Shoes.
My friend Whitney opted for What’s the Point? A Rambling Look Inside a Yoga Addict’s Mind, but she’s since abandoned yoga for powerlifting so we may have to make some changes. Maybe What's My PR? Personally I prefer Sorry I Got Chalk on You Again, Cindy.
If I ever write my autobiography I’m going to call it Middle-Age: A Second—Better-Funded—Adolescence. It's a thinly disguised version of what I'm usually thinking, which is 'I Don't Give A F*** Anymore. Let's Go Have Some Fun.'
Whatever the title I’ve often thought the great poet Jimmy Buffet summed it up best when he sang, ‘Some of it’s magic, some it’s tragic, But I had a good life all the way.’
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