What’s On Your Anti-Bucket?…

Oldest Chicken does something out of bounds each year on or near the anniversary of The Norwegian’s death. Perhaps he thinks if he drives himself to the brink he’ll be closer to his beloved father–who knows. What I do know is we have an agreement–tell me after. I’ve heard about being at the top of the highest mountain in California, snowboarding off the side of a mountain and jumping from a plane. After the fact. Thank Sweet Baby Jesus. When he shares, all breathless and happy, I feign aww and never let him see my WTF.

He sees no point in a life not well lived–and sometimes that’s on the edge. Whatever. His mother, however, has a pretty hefty anti-bucket list. You know, the list of shit you won’t ever be caught doing? It starts with the favorite chicks debating whether they’ll go gray. Some think rocking the silver is pretty cool. I wouldn’t know, won’t know, not ever. It’s on the anti-bucket list.

Going gray falls in the same anti-bucket list bucket as staying in a haunted house, getting a tattoo, camping and piercing one’s tongue. It’s hard enough to stave off the creep down the mountain of skin, breasts and face. Why on earth would you ink it and call attention? Piercing a tongue–pfft. I have a hard enough time wondering if there’s food in my teeth without having to unravel spinach from a metal bracket with a hole in my tongue. Same goes for any pierce of the face. Just no.

There is no need to skydive or bungee jump. Same goes for polar plunge or a hot air balloon excursion. I see things just fine from down here. Roller coasters have no real reason for existence. This is proven each time one goes astray and sends someone flying. Do you people not have imaginations? Can you not see this coming?

Running a marathon? Please. Twenty-six miles, count ’em. No don’t. The sweat, the chafe, the hair dishevelment. Not to mention being up that early. Do those people not have Grey Goose dirty martinis in the evening?

I will never stop wearing heels. I experimented a few months ago. Actually, I was forced. Events, two days in a row, required tennis shoes, cute Keds but still. Legs were left sore. Feet were dazed and confused. Evidently my toes prefer being stuffed to a point in downward dog.

Other nevers on the anti-bucket: dating a guy who’s not as bitchy as me, taking advice from people less successful than me, putting up with shit from family, stop draping myself in pearls, cease believing Paris misses me and following the Real Housewives. Except for Beverly Hills. If those bitches actually succeed in making LVP leave the show, they’re dead to me.

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