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Let's talk about age. I just had the best check-up of my life, and I'm 64. I've got my cholesterol and glucose to within a healthy range with diet. I'm losing weight gradually, so it'll stay off, and I don't have far to go; I have an hourglass figure, although there's a little more sand in the bottom than I'd like. I'm taking handfuls of psychiatric pills to control my manic depression (inherited), PTSD (growing up in mining camps) and anxiety, and they're all working with very minor side effects, and I know that the longer I live, the more effective the psycho meds will get, with even fewer side effects. My skin is smooth as a baby's ass because I can't take heat and never got any sun. My doctor is impressed. I never exercise. I'm worse than a couch potato; I'm a couch dumpling. I can sing like a bitch and hold a note four (4!) times as long as Whitney Houston. Again, I'm in better health than I've ever been, and I'm 60-effing-4. The grandparent I most resemble lived to be 95, buried three husbands, and was climbing trees in her 80s. And I'm supposed to worry about age? C'mon bitches, we can take this world. plus figure long bridesmaid gowns