Overheard the other day:
Middle-Aged Woman the First (with teased bottle-blond hair, wearing a sweatshirt with a kitten applique): My daughter's getting married!
Middle-Aged Woman the Second (with teased bottle-brunette hair, wearing a sweatshirt with a cartoon character applique): Finally! How old is she now?
MAWTF: She's twenty-three. She waited a long time!
MAWTS: Did she ever. Who's she marrying?
MAWTF: Oh, a very nice boy from Drayton Valley. They're going to live out there.
MAWTS: That's nice. Does she have a job in the area?
MAWTF: No, she might look for something after the wedding, but we're focussing on that right now.
The conversation fades away, while Artsy's head quietly explodes....
Seriously. Twenty-three? Twenty-three years old is a long time to wait before you get married? What century is this? And what, pray tell, would happen to a woman who passed the best-before date of 23 years old? Maybe she would end up like me - independent! Educated! Unconventional! Not particularly interested in getting married! Set in our ways! (That's what my gramma says about me - and she does have a point.) A spinster!
I remember when I was 23 - I got my dog that year, and that was the very limit of what I could handle. A marriage at that age would have been an absolute disaster.
I suppose there's only one thing to be done: never tease or dye my hair, and resist the lure of sweatshirts with appliques on them. That way lies madness.