I'm celebrating my birthday next week. All I can say is middle age is when you think you still look good in a mini-skirt because your eyes don't work well enough to see that you don't.
Middle age is when your hour-glass figure starts resembling a Mason jar.
Middle age is when you trade in beauty sleep for mediocre looking sleep.
When my husband reached middle age, he decided to become a cowboy. He had a lot to learn. Boy, was he surprised to find out the calf scramble didn't come with grits.
My husband was a terrible cowboy. He thought spurs were extensions of the interstate highway.
My husband failed as a cowboy. When he was told it was time for the roundup, he said he'd rather round down.
I can understand why my husband was a lousy cowboy. His idea of roaming the range was to figure out which knob controlled the back burner.
I was a cowgirl for a week. It was fun. I particularly liked my six-shooters: Harry, Larry, Gary, Barry, Jerry and Bob.
I just got back from a cruise. The first night I was onboard the ship, the captain issued gale warnings. He was serious because Gale was evil if she wasn't first in the buffet line.
I got home just in time to see Mommy kissing Santa Claus underneath the mistletoe last night. That confused me because last night was March 15.