At what age does optimism become absurdity? Is there a point of no return?

Life has taught me that the little boxes representing age categories are much more than squares on a page. For instance, the 40-45 check box marks the transition from liking to shop in the junior’s section, to having to shop in the large frumpy womens section, because there isn't a stylish selection available for anyone larger than a small 9. So, by default you're forced into ugly clothes, because we all know that most fashion designers for major department stores are incapable of believing that any woman that can learn to live with mid-life cellulite has no right to look good doing it, especially if she is of the moderate to low income bracket.

By the time a woman reaches the next life change, the following little cube attached to numbers, she's had enough of the categorical niche she's been stuffed into and begins venting in Towanda rants. The clothes outlook is still dismal, the available man market is even worse, and while her ex is hot-rodding around town with a fresh new tart in the sports car she should have gotten, she's finally finding herself.

While wholeness is a pleasant state to contemplate, if given a choice, most would trade that for a brief liaison with a Jon Bon Jovi-licious house painter in a minute. Too bad the chances of that are so slim, unlike our profiles.

With each new check box, comes a new list of collateral losses to come to terms with, until in the final stages when the butterfly turns into the caterpillar with a bust line where her waste used to be, and an ass greatly resembling that continent Down Under.

Back to my question.