One is enough. Forever. In fact, it’s one too many. Traumatizing, it is.  More so than seeing that first crow’s foot.  Or when you realized you couldn’t just cut a few calories, work out a little and lose 10 lbs. in a week.  This one – there’s a finality to it.  And base, raw humiliation.

Most women (and probably some guys) “of a certain age” know what I’m talking about.  That one stray, discolored fiber on the carpet. That tiny little spot on the rug.  More than likely, very few people will even have the opportunity to see it, let alone notice it.  But you know it’s there.  Down there.  Like a big, giant gray neon sign flashing “You’re old!  You’re old!”

Next you’re faced with the dilemma – what do I DO with this invader?  Pluck? Dye?  Ignore? Accept?  Dispense with the whole business? (Ouch)  Watch the Sex in the City episode where it happens to Samantha so you don’t feel like such an elderly freak?  (Season 6. Episode 12, for future reference.)

Or flaunt the fact that you have no filter and write about it in hopes that others will commiserate with you.

Or write an ode to it:

O Bastard wire 

You are the most loathsome

Because you are solitary

You are the harbinger

And I curse you to Hades

You’ve heard the saying “Getting old is not for pussies.” ?   Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but horrifyingly enough, it is.