I’m gearing up for a trip in a couple of weeks with three of my sisters-in-law! How fun is that? Suffice it to say that our ages range from 48 to 54, so this should provide plenty of fodder for future lady lit books. J

I’m wondering what four middle-aged (well, they say the 50 is the new 40, after all) women will do for a whole week in the tropics without a thing to do? Any ideas? Please don’t tell me to get my hair done in some fun, exotic way. I’m not into those little corn row braid thingies. There’s only so much you can do with five hairs, you know what I’m saying? And the fact that my hairline has gone north—think arctic—well, some things are better left hidden.

I know there’s always the beach. I mean, people go to the tropical spots to lie beneath a golden sun so they can bake to a beautiful golden brown, right? But I’m afraid instead of a nice little ding announcing the end of my baking time, my crisp self would see red fire trucks coming straight for me with a hose big enough to blow me from Florida to Puerto Rico. I mean, just how dry can leather get?

Besides, I don’t think the world is ready to see this fifty-year-old body in a bathing suit. On the other hand, there is a certain element of freedom that hits at my age. So what if my wrinkled self struttin’ down the beach causes all aquatic life and human kind within a twenty-five mile radius to scatter? I’ve earned these wrinkles. Every doggone one of ‘em, thank you very much.

So I’ll pack my bathing suit, sunscreen, wrinkle creams and maybe throw in a few good books, then I’ll soon be on my way. But I’m thinking somebody should warn the resort that we’re coming. You never know what could happen when four middle-aged women come to town.