Beauty tips for the wasteland

If You’d Rather Be a Coward Than a Sex Slave, Cross Your Fingers for the First Wave to Take You Out

In a post-apocalyptic society, old and ugly wins the day

I have a part-time neighbor named Gary, who’s a bit of a “prepper” type. He owns a virtually indestructible, concrete dome at the end of my street, which he visits a few times a year. He was planning to move into the dome home permanently, but his wife wouldn’t go for it.

What a pity. I thoroughly cherish every minute of his time in town. He incessantly yells at his dog. He shoots his rifle at all hours of the day. With such a soothing presence, it’s a real shame he’ll never be a full-time neighbor.

My husband and I try to avoid Gary as much as we can, but we’ve also learned that engaging him in conversation on our own terms is the best course of action. Otherwise, he knocks on our door and greatly overstays our reluctant welcome. The man sucks at reading a room.

Every time Gary visits, he shares his perennial doom and gloom warnings with us. This might involve an upcoming government collapse or the looming threat of race riots, but the underlying message is always the same. My husband and I need to get guns and learn how to use them. According to Gary, things will “get really bad” and we’ll need to protect our land and ourselves.

Gary’s message never changes, and neither does my response.

“I want nothing to do with guns, Gary. If things ‘get really bad,’ I’d prefer to be taken out in the first wave.”

He’s completely mystified by my response. Staring back at me with a blank expression on his face, he eventually says, “Just consider buying a gun. If you don’t have one, you can’t use it.”

Let’s face it, if video games, books, and movies can be trusted, post-apocalyptic society looks pretty bleak for the ladies. There’s a wide range of possible cataclysms — nuclear, plague, zombie, or other — but the aftermath often includes one particular similarity. Young and attractive females are forced to be breeders or sex slaves.

These might be fictional narratives, but their creators are basing these ideas on known human behavior. And with the way things have been lately, it’s not hard to imagine a bunch of heartless dickheads as the last ones standing.

I’m in my early fifties, and while I look decent for my age, I wouldn’t put myself in either the young or attractive category. Attractiveness is relative to the competition, however, and an extreme reduction in Earth’s population might raise my status dramatically. Because of this, I plan to take some anti-beauty measures. If there is an apocalypse, and I happen to survive the main event, I intend to be as undesirable as possible.

My body shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Between gravity, too much sitting, and middle-aged weight gain, my bathing suit areas are deteriorating on their own. My boobs were never great, but with added mass and significant sag, they look like they belong on this albino frog.

My butt was still pretty good until a few years ago, but it deflates a bit more with every birthday. Goodbye, peach. Hello, shovel.

I’ve got a few chin hairs that need to be plucked regularly, perhaps I could accentuate this by taking up shaving. I’m sure if I started shaving my face every day, or every other day, I could have a light beard, or at least a goatee when the time comes.

I’m considering getting a bit of plastic surgery, also. We’ve all seen the horrible results of botched nose jobs, or over-filled lips and cheeks. Well, I’m going to ask for these things — request for the doctor to go overboard. I might even go in with some example pictures, like I do sometimes at the hairdresser.

I’m not entirely sure my husband will like my plan, but he wouldn’t want me to be a sex slave. Besides, every time I ask, he says he’d still love me no matter what horrible affliction I might develop. I hope he means it because shit’s about to get hideous around our house!

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