Forget Father Time. Time is a woman. Her latest cosmetic surgery heals just in time for her to step into the new year with pucker-up lips and lipo-suctioned hips. Check out those stiletto heels under a star-studded black gown, and white mink of clouds and snow. Every dyed hair is nailed in place. She leaves nothing to chance. But she’s no pretty toy. Her jeweled bag holds your mother’s death, your ulcers, your divorce. She’ll dump it on your head if you’ve been naughty, and leave you to sort out the mess. But you know how to give it back to her hard. You waste Time on bad bets and running from responsibility. You wear her down. She binge-eats your cooking, and gains 20 pounds. The gray shows in her hair. Her face sags, and she shuffles through the house in her robe and slippers. Much like your ex-wife. And like your ex-wife, she leaves tire treads on your back and sues for spousal support. She uses that money to pay for cosmetic surgery that heals just in time for the new year.
published in Imogene's Notebook
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