Last night at dinner, Trixie launches into a lengthy discourse on aging. She lists the women she knows who've had work done, the eyes and breasts, and other parts I didn't know you could even fix. She moves on to the women who aren't aging well and reviews the reasons: the sun, the genetics, the wrinkle-depository we call children. That Trixie. She has much to say about aging, so many thoughts and theories, such pointed commentary. "You know," Trixie says, grabbing a large magnifying glass out of her Prada knock-off, and aiming it my way, "you haven't aged at all." Here she pauses and leans in closely, getting a good look at the SJG. "Well, that's not true. You have aged, but not that much." Oh, Trixie. You make the SJG blush. Your faint praise flatters me so, I'm going to go dunk my punim in that Olay Regenerist Resurfacing Elixir you gave me for my b'day, and pray you come down with laryngitis.