Forty Something & Not Dead Yet

Remember the show called “Thirty-Something?” I think I was twenty-something when it was on. They were all a bunch of whiny babies. I just wanted to tell them to suck it up and get on with their lives instead of always worrying about what they didn’t have and thinking life was passing them by because they had responsibilities and couldn’t go bungee jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge or party all night with their unattached friends.
Then there was, “Friends,” a show about singles nearing thirty that acted infantile well past their matured-by expiration date, whining about not being able to find the perfect mate no matter how many they tried out for a night or two. What a shame.
I can say with quite a bit of assurance that a show will never be written about forty-something friends. Those living in their forties really can have a lot to whine about and that presents way too much reality, even for a generation of reality-driven entertainment gawkers. Forty means: More aches and pains. Acne at the same time as Arthritis. Grown children moving back home after you thought you were rid of them. The battle of the bulge. A Mid-life crisis begetting season tickets to the Roller Derby or joining a Harley Davidson gang. Loss of hair, spontaneity, short-term memory, etc…
I turned forty with a bit of trepidation, as though I could turn back time and cling to the edge of reason. Forty seemed ancient twenty years ago, but now I’ve talked myself into believing it’s still quite young. After all, I plan to live to one hundred twenty, and with new advances in plastic surgery and anti-aging techniques I shouldn’t become fodder for “Tales From The Crypt” until I’m at least one hundred ten.
Forty-five snuck up on me and now I’m just a breath away from the big 5-O. But I don’t plan to disappear from society like an aging starlet from the thirties. I have a life to live and even if I don’t have buns of steel I believe it’s still worth living.
Fifty used to be the jumping off point. Women hit this number and decided fashion and looking their best were for the “younger” generation. They quit dying their hair, started wearing elastic waistbands and covered their drooping bosoms with tent-like blouses embroidered with flowers or spreading ivy, then sat down on plastic-protected sofas to knit until they died.
Luckily things have changed a bit since then. It may have something to do with Hollywood. They get a lot of bad press for turning girls anorexic, glamorizing violence and promiscuous sex, and calling Republican Presidents bad names, but what about the good they do? Hollywood should also be given credit for encouraging women to look their best in spite of their age. (Okay, Meg Ryan’s overly plump lips are slightly scary, but I’m sure they will deflate in time and look quite normal.) Perhaps they go overboard with Botox and collagen, smoothing the lines and filling the cracks like a professional cement finisher, but at least they give us hope that there is life after forty. (Maybe just a bit of hope: mother of the bride or some eccentric aunt – but hope nonetheless)
Forty no longer seems noteworthy. Fifty is looking younger all the time. From here in the middle I can say with confidence that aging doesn’t have to hurt all the time. Some days it’s just a dull ache. So smooth on your spackling, pull on your spandex, and get out there and live the years God has provided you with purpose and ingenuity. After all, you’re not dead yet.
(For the two or three fans who may have read this when I posted it on my yahoo blog a couple years back: sorry for repeating myself, but it is a sign of aging)

The Bill of Pet Rights

All the news the past few days has been about the passing of the Health Care Bill, posturing and back patting, congratulatory fist pumping, and accusations that those who opposed it are evil terrorist types who want nothing more than to destroy the backbone of our nation—the welfare system.

Our government has liberated us from evil insurance companies that prey upon the weak and lowly. They have given us the right to health care—bought and paid for by taxpayers through the year 3018, if there are any taxpayers left by then. They promise us cheaper rates, better service, smiling doctors and nurses, and medicinal marijuana for those who have to sit in a hospital waiting area for longer than three hours. Okay, I made that last part up, but I think it’s coming. They just have to throw in a few more provisions in the revisions.

Health Care for all humans is one thing, but what about our pets? Where is the Obamanationcare for them? I have two dogs and they are legal citizens, born and raised here in the United States of America, home of the free and land of ten thousand welfare programs. Who is going to care for them and pony up the money when I run out? Probably sooner rather than later.

Yesterday I took them to the vet for their annual heartworm tests, distemper/rabies shots, and overall checkup. $220 bucks please! The dogs got a treat and I got to pay the bill. I was sorely tempted to empty the treat bucket, sitting on the corner of the cashier’s counter, into my purse. After just spending the grocery money, I thought I might have to serve up Milkbone Casserole for dinner.

Today I dropped the mutts off to be groomed. Haircuts and baths for the both of them. They looked at me with their sad eyes, their tails drooping to the ground, and I knew I would pay—twice. Eighty bucks to the groomer, and again in dog retribution when they returned home. I know the Dog Whisperer says that dogs aren’t vengeful, but I beg to differ. My dogs had a bitch for a mother.

When I was a kid, our dogs never had shots, got baths, or ate treats. They never came into the house or slept on a nice, warm bed. Now the government insists that we give them shots, buy them a license, and treat them humanely. Of course, humanely can mean different things to different people. Some think it means to feed them steak and let them eat at the table, and others think it means a nice dry doghouse in the backyard.

But since they have the right to be treated humanely and given special health care benefits, why not go all the way? Free health care for pets. If we humans can’t afford health care for ourselves, how are we to pay for dogs? I don’t know about you, but if there is a choice to be made…humans win hands down. Dogs can’t win cause they don’t have hands. They have paws. So, if there is any justice in the world, any love for our four-footed friends…let congress pass a law to cover the exorbitant prices of animal health care.

They’ll thank you for it—by not bringing dog retribution down upon your heads, or in your path.

Percolator 101

Have you noticed that coffee has become an obsession with Americans? Sure, compulsive coffee drinkers have been around since the first Luwak (Civet-cat) pooped out those little coffee beans in Indonesia and someone thought, “hey, I bet that will taste good ground up and dissolved in hot water!” Actually, most people can’t afford that coffee. It’s special. It sells for around $300 a pound. But the beans that haven’t been selected for consumption by small rodents are still very popular.

Nearly every television program now shows a character purchasing coffee, drinking coffee, or talking about drinking coffee. It’s similar to the portrayal of alcohol consumption on TV back in the sixties, only worse. Just watch NCIS and you will see ads for Starbucks in nearly every scene. Gibbs has to have a cup of coffee in his hand or he can’t function to solve a case.

Have you read a book lately that doesn’t mention drinking coffee? I haven’t. I just finished a novel that had the characters spending more time in coffee shops than tracking the serial killer stalking their town. I guess a strong cup of java is the quickest route to solving a mystery. And of course, cops have been known to live on coffee and Rolaids. The resulting ulcer keeps them on their toes and makes them better at their job.

I didn’t start drinking coffee until I turned forty. And no—it wasn’t so I could stay awake past eight p.m. I think it was peer pressure. My husband finally broke me down. The problem is, I like sweets with my coffee. A little bitter goes especially well with chocolate, cake, donuts, or pie. I’m just glad I didn’t start this habit back in my twenties or I’d probably be four hundred pounds by now.

Coffee can be addictive. I don’t even know why I make a pot every morning. I tell myself it’s just to run fresh water through the Bunn. Wouldn’t want the tank water to get old and over-heated...or something. It’s not that I drink a whole pot, but it’s there…just in case I need it.

In the last few years, many of us have been turned into coffee snobs by coffee shop propaganda. First, those liberal west coast beatniks brought their Starbucks to town, selling caffeine fixes on every corner as readily as coca-cola. Others soon followed. Caribou, Dunn Bros, and many more. Bookstores decided to get in on the fad, selling uppity roasted bean juice to customers who sit around reading poetry or memoirs about people with really sad childhoods who grow up and open their own coffee shops and practice meditation while high on caffeine.

Do you turn your nose up at Folgers or Maxwell House, and only buy flavored, specialty brands? Is the coffee that your parents drank not good enough for you? Can you hear “it’s good to the last drop,” “fill it to the rim with Brim,” or “mountain grown for better flavor,” without your lip curling in derision? If not—then you are a coffee snob.

There is only one sure cure for addictive, snobbish coffee behavior. You may need a coffee enema to rid you of this problem. I hear it’s all the rage in Hollywood.

Roadkill in the First Degree

Today I had my first kill. It wasn’t intentional. It’s not like I have a license to kill. It just happened. It was an accident. Okay, maybe if I hadn’t been speeding to Leon’s office to help out this morning, it wouldn’t have happened. But I can’t take it back. There are consequences to our actions. I’ve tried to teach my children this for years and often feel like a failure at even this simple lesson. Now I know why. Because consequences speak louder than momspeak. Until they experience the consequences for themselves, they will never believe that speed kills. As I have.

One moment I’m driving along, singing to my favorite Casting Crowns CD, and the next I’m left with a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, as though I’ve been head-butted by a toddler. I didn’t have time to break. It all happened much too fast. Just a sickening thud and crunch of bone.

They usually move like the wind, whipping between cars as they make a dash for the opposite side of the road, but this one moved more like a slight breeze, cause he caught his death under my rear tire. He met his maker where the rubber meets the road.

I wanted to stop and see if he needed CPR but there was a car directly behind me that slowed when they saw Mr. Squirrel flip out from under my tire and slap itself silly on the cold asphalt, obviously in the throes of death. The accusatory glare of the driver made me keep the pedal to the medal. I think I saw a PETA sticker on their windshield.

Today has been a tough day—for me as well as for the squirrel. Well….his was definitely worse, but I have to live with the consequences, the blood guilt, the memory of what I saw in the rearview mirror (flip flop, flip flop), and what I see every time I look in the bathroom mirror (besides water spots and toothpaste spit)—A squirrel killer.

Book Review: "Chasing Francis" by Ian Morgan Cron

Chasing Francis is a novel with an agenda. Every novelist has one but most don’t thrust it in your face quite so blatantly. While the story is entertaining and thought-provoking, it is not a novel you want to take at face value, but rather to sift it through true Bible doctrine and theology and see what parts come out whole in the end. I enjoyed the quirky characters, humorous quips about the church and the world at large, and the description of Italian architecture and history, but…the author has an obvious bias against those he considers to be "conservative evangelicals" and apparently thinks a Catholic saint can “fix” them.

Chase Falson is the pastor of the largest contemporary “evangelical” church in New England. He’s seeing a psychiatrist to help him understand why he feels he’s losing his faith. (That right there is a strange twist for an evangelical) His uncle, who just happens to be a former Baptist turned Franciscan priest, now living in Italy, invites him over to go on a spiritual pilgrimage in the footsteps of St. Francis of Assisi.

A third of the book is story, a third is the character’s journal entries, which are mostly “Francis history,” and a third is a question and answer guide in the back.

If half the stories are true, Francis was truly a wondrous human being, but he is not Christ and should not be the example we follow. The Bible says there is only one way to heaven. Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. It doesn’t mention Francis.
Using the Sermon on the Mount as basically the only scripture backup, Francis supposedly followed Christ’s words literally. He gave everything he owned away, including the clothes on his back. He believed being a peacemaker meant that war was always wrong and no argument was worth pursuing.
Francis is also portrayed as a Doctor Dolittle, talking and preaching to animals and birds—like that’s a good thing. Here is a quote from one of the priest characters that saddened my heart to think someone might believe Christ died for a planet rather than the individuals inhabiting it. “If we continue allowing the earth to be destroyed, we’re actually working against the purposes of Jesus, who died for it.” (Really?! Jesus died for trees and grass, and mountains? I don’t think so.) The author quotes Mark 16:15 “…Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature,” as explanation for Francis preaching to animals.
Francis was also into the “arts.” Apparently Catholic churches put all that money into fancy buildings because it’s necessary to behold beauty in order to come to God. One character said, “Our neglect of the power of beauty and the arts helps explain why so many people have lost interest in church. Our coming back to the arts will help renew that interest.”

Feeding the poor, being peacemakers, laying up our treasure in heaven rather than on earth are certainly things we as Christians should be doing. Christ is the living example of all those things and more. He also spoke through the writings of Paul, John, Jude, Luke, etc, about how to preach, teach, witness, love our neighbors and build up the church. I don’t recall any verses about having art festivals or supporting “save the whales” with our tithes as means to teaching Christ crucified and risen. Maybe I'm missing a book in my KJV, NIV, and ESV.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from NavPress Publishers as part of their Blogger Review program . I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255: “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.

There's An App For That!

Car commercials used to rule television land, but lately it seems that most advertising is about cell phones and apps. Now at first I thought app was probably just a misspelling. What they were trying to say was, “any ape can use this phone.” I got an ape for that. But I was wrong. Apps is slang for applications. For those of you, like me, who don’t have a special expensive phone with the ability to download these life changing programs, you probably don’t know to what extent these techie people have gone in their endeavor to invent literally everything you could ever need or think you need.

A recent news story reported that there is now an app for Illegal Immigration. Apparently it’s not easy enough to get in. A group calling themselves, Electronic Civil Disobedience, made an app to assist illegal aliens in crossing the border between Mexico and the United States. It gives them GPS coordinates for the best route on that particular day so they can avoid those pesky border guards, where to find water hidden by helpful people that also want to aid in the illegal process, and apparently where they can get their shoes resoled after their desert wanderings.

Students have multiple apps to choose from. If you are in the medical field you can use the Anatomy Textbook app. Colorful, vibrant pictures of muscles, bones, vessels, viscera, and joints are just a download away. To get a closer look, you just pinch the screen. Awesome. There are also apps for learning languages. Learn Spanish and you can help write how-to apps for illegal aliens. How-to get a fake I.D. How-to get paid in cash so you don’t have to pay tax. How-to get free health care. How-to avoid Immigration Officials.

For those of you who don’t often get a night out with your spouse or date, there are apps for that. Tend to lose your car whenever you leave it in a parking garage? There’s an app to find it. Need to find a restaurant but can’t think of one? There’s an app for that. Have nothing to talk about once you’re sitting in a restaurant and hear a song on the radio that you just can’t remember the name of? There’s an app to help you Name that Tune. Definitely a conversation starter.

If you are unable to get a babysitter and desperate to get away and the baby is sleeping anyway… There’s an app for that. Yes, Baby Monitor App. You thought I was kidding, didn’t you? Nope. You just enter your phone number, leave your phone next to the sleeping baby, and when the phone hears your baby waking up, it will call you. I’m not sure how the phone calls you when you left your phone to call you, but that’s what the app said.

If you don’t feel comfortable leaving your sleeping baby alone with a phone—download apps for the babies and take them with you. Peekaboo Barn Animals will keep your children entertained for minutes with real barnyard sounds. The Counting app teaches your children to count. They can count the peas on their plate, how many times they spill their drink, how many people get up and leave the restaurant because they don’t want to listen to barnyard animals and your kids counting. My favorite app for children is the Virtual Puppy. If only I’d thought of that before purchasing a real dog. No expensive veterinarian bills, no stinky dog food bowl, no poop cleanup.

Of course there are lots of game apps, but why would anyone want to play games on their phone when they can download the Bird Watcher app? Identify birds by sight and sound. Or the Grocery list app. Because of course scratch paper is so scarce in America that we can’t scribble our list by hand. The Surf Report app is a necessary program if you want to know where the best surfing is all over the world. You can also get an app for purchasing books. I thought everyone just bought them on Amazon—but whatever.

My personal favorites are the Oven Timer app—in case you are out of hearing range of the actual oven timer (no more burnt cookies), and the Ocarina app, which gives you the ability to play a flute like instrument by blowing into your phone mic and holding down different key formations. I can just see the looks from people as I sit on a bench at the Mall of America and play my Ocarina. Where else would you play it?

Free To Be Me

Americans as a whole are very “arms-length” kind of people. I know I need my space and often find myself backing away from those who are “in your face” kind of people (you know who you are). But they are usually few and far between—especially during cold and flu season.

Have you ever noticed when you stop for a red light, that all the cars are staggered so no one has to look directly across at the person next to them? I’m not sure if this is done subconsciously or consciously, but it is very seldom that anyone lines up evenly at the lights. It’s sort of like riding in an elevator with strangers. Everyone tries to pretend to be absorbed in the lighted numbers, or they just stare awkwardly at the closed doors with the expression of Dobermans ready to bolt to freedom.

I don’t know if people in other countries are this way. I’ve never been to another country. But I think most Americans have a built in need for space and privacy. An aspect of our DNA that goes back to the days of Daniel Boone, Davy Crocket and Johnny Appleseed, and all those pioneers and westward traveling ancestors that needed elbowroom to live and thrive, plant seeds and be happy.

That may be part of the reason so many people want tighter security at our borders. Not only are criminals, terrorists, and illegals finding their way in, to our detriment. But they’re also taking up space in our land. Pretty soon there won’t be any more elbowroom and we’ll be like Europeans—unwashed masses with universal health care that pays to put us to sleep when we get sick. Sure they got old buildings, but do they have mountains and desserts and canyons and prairie where no one lives? Someday neither will we.

As land and space have shrunk in our country, houses have gotten larger. Have you noticed that? The average size of a house fifty years ago was half that of today. They had one bathroom and maybe two bedrooms. Kids bunked together. No one got their own room—not even mom and dad. Today, people build separate rooms just to store junk, hold exercise equipment, or play on their computer. Americans go to the mall or a movie and come home low on oxygen, thankful for big houses with multiple rooms and doors to shut against the cacophony of life or other family members.

It’s not necessarily that we’re spoiled, extravagant people--although some of us are--but that we wouldn’t survive in tiny apartment complexes with multiple generations living together under one roof. We would suffocate.

Born free, free as a mountain lion, free as a wolfhound, free as a bird. Americans love their freedom and their wide-open spaces. We sing about it in our national anthem. We vacation in places where climbing rocks is the only activity available. We get claustrophobic if we travel farther east than the Illinois border. (Okay, that’s just me, but you get my drift)

I’m not sure what the protocol is for traveling up escalators, but I think it’s much the same as for elevators and cars at red lights. Don’t make eye contact and don’t get too close to the person ahead of you.

Barbi Bigots

Sometimes I think there are individuals out there who just have to cause trouble or they can’t sleep at night. Especially pertaining to prejudice and Race. There is always someone trying to make an issue out of literally everything.

Take Walmart for example. This is a huge company that employs many different ethnic groups: red, yellow, black, and white, men, women, and those who fall in between. Now Walmart is being accused of racism because they marked down a black Barbi doll. Somebody took a picture of the white and black dolls side by side, and immediately jumped to the conclusion that the company is racist because the black dolls had been marked down. Walmart denies the allegations. They say the black doll wasn’t selling as well as the white Barbi doll and therefore it was marked down so it would sell quickly to make space for new spring items.

No one mentioned that perhaps it was marked down because they wanted to give blacks a better deal on dolls—because of course that would sound crazy. But no crazier than a huge company losing money on an item just to satisfy racist leanings. No company wants to lose money. The purpose of business is to make money. If something sells well they don’t bother to mark it down.

So, does this mean blacks don’t like Barbi dolls, or that they buy the white dolls instead, or that there weren’t as many blacks shopping at that specific Walmart? It could be a variety of reasons, but surely not because the company is racist. That’s ridiculous. To be honest, I'm often a minority when I shop at my local Walmart. So, will they be marking down the white Barbies here? I don’t know. I don’t shop for Barbies. But they did quit selling the black licorice I like. I don’t think that it’s racist, but I definitely think that it’s wrong.

Commercial Break!

People fall into two categories: those that love commercials and really enjoy a six minute break between every ten minutes of programming, and those that hate commercials and tune them out or use the time to workout with their thigh master.
I normally fall into the second category, except when it comes to exceptionally funny commercials like the one above. Funny is always better than serious. Seriously.
Have you seen the Huggies commercial with the man changing his son’s diaper? He opens the diaper and the kid sprays all over the ceiling of the room. I’m not talking a water hose spray. I’m talking power hose spray. That’s “serious leakage.” Apparently, Huggies stops serious leakage.
There’s a fairly new commercial for a product called, Almond Milk. Now that’s a strange concept. They say it’s “all natural,” but what the heck is natural about milk from Almonds?! Have you ever cracked open an almond to discover milk inside? I haven’t. Now milk from cows, goats, or even coconuts, I understand. Milk in Milk Duds or a Milky Way, maybe. But milk in an almond is just silly.
In the Progressive Insurance commercials a really annoying, pushy broad is selling online insurance. If you met her in a real store you would turn tail and run. But since she’s on TV as this “computer persona,” I guess it’s okay for her to be annoying and pushy as long as you remember what she’s advertising. She is like a computer virus, staying in your mind no matter how much you want to delete the memory.
My daughter, in a moment of enlightenment, informed me that food such as hamburgers or meat items are always spoken by a deep male voice-over, while chocolate is advertised with a seductive female voice-over. That totally explains why I crave a burger whenever I hear the Allstate Insurance guy. But what I don’t get is why my husband craves chocolate every night.
I’m the woman your woman could write like. Look down. Back at me. Look down. Now back at me. I’m on a horse.

Love American Style

As the song says, Breaking up is hard to do. But not anymore. People using Facebook, phone texts, twitter, or email to break up with their significant others is on the rise. In fact, one of those all-important surveys reported that young people think their cell phone is their most important piece of social interaction. I guess no one told them they could communicate face to face. The importance they seem to put on their relationships is quite evident by the way they say adios. Very mature.
When I was in Junior High, when a boy broke up with a girl (totally hypothetical example of course), he would write a note or send his message by word of mouth through his sidekick-spokesperson. This “guy friend” would relay the message to your “girl friend” and you would be boyfriendless and brokenhearted, or footloose & fancy free, depending on your outlook.
That was then and this is now. Apparently, not much has changed, except that these aren’t just tweens and teenagers breaking up every other day with their latest crush. These are adults: people old enough to vote, go to war, drink alcohol, and drive children on school buses. Not necessarily at the same time.

Text message breakup: sory dnt lik u no more. Weeny out

Or perhaps you want to breakup without actually expending any energy at all. You would probably do it on Facebook. Just “unfriend them.”

Twitter is a one line kind of communication for those individuals of few words. Perhaps attach a link to your favorite break-up song and dedicate it to your lover. Send it out to all your followers as well. That way you won’t have to repeat yourself.

Email is the most personal. But it doesn’t have to be. Just put “it’s over,” in the subject line and have spamblocker take care of any responses.

It’s not just singles that use this method either. Want out of your marriage, but just can’t face that person you slept beside for ten years, ate with, laughed with, had children with, and went into debt with? Text them. It’s quick, concise, and so easy. “I want a divorce.” You don’t have to explain yourself. You don’t have to witness any tears or anger. You don’t have to deal with life up close and personal.

I guess that’s really what it’s all about. Not having to put yourself out. Not having to see the consequences of your actions or deal with the reactions. Not having to get out of your carefully constructed bubble of self-centeredness.
I hope the surveys are wrong. I hope the majority of people aren’t this selfish. I hope the Easter Bunny brings me chocolate.

Beholding Beauty

America is obsessed with image. Beautiful women adorn covers of magazines, posters, and billboards. There are little girl beauty pageants (which is kind of creepy), junior pageants, and Miss USA pageants. There is a Mrs. America pageant—and probably in San Fransisco—a Mr. Cross-dresser pageant.
Movies and television constantly feed us their version of beauty. We are inundated with a concept of perfection that no one can ever really attain. Because even models and actors never think they’re quite perfect enough. Plastic surgery, tummy tucks, Botox, breast enlargements and lip plumping is the name of the game—especially if you want to be in the running for the sexiest woman of the year award.
But what if you no longer had to compete with other women? Wouldn’t that be a relief? You could release the breath of air that’s been holding your stomach in for so long, take off those four-inch heels that cause carpel tunnel in your ankles and wear a pair of comfy flats that brings your height down to the eye level of a toddler. You could choose to use mascara only if you’re going to attend a wedding, and refuse to purchase a pair of pantyhose unless you plan to rob a bank.
In Dubai, women don’t need to worry about beauty pageants. They don’t have to worry about putting on makeup or wearing stylish clothes. They don’t have to worry if they have a big old wart on the end of their nose. Who’s going to know? After all, they have those amazing black robes on from head to foot, that cover up any and all flaws, and leave literally everything to the imagination.
I’ve always thought Jacob’s choice of Rachel instead of Leah, in the Bible, was odd, because apparently he’d never seen either of their faces before. How else could he get married to one and think he was being married to the other? Those abaya robes are great equilizors.
But without women to look at and admire, the men in Dubai have come up with a solution. Gulf Arabs from across the region gather for the biggest beauty pageant of all. The most beautiful camel in the world! Yes, they parade their golden-colored animals, adorned with sparkling jewelry, in a pageant that decides the prettiest camel.
These sexy camels are judged very similarly to women in a Miss America Beauty Pageant (or scholarship program). Based on the length of their neck, the curve of their bumps, height and good looks, and of course, whether they are of pure lineage.
Afterward, the best and most beautiful are sold for millions of dollars. Perhaps they end up as the spokescamel for Camel dung Industries or get a spread in Vanity Camel Magazine. All I know is, the tribesmen who brought them in must really be tired of looking at their wives in those robes if camels fascinate them.
I’ve always thought that camels are stinky, ugly, spitting creatures. In this case, beauty is very definitely in the eye of the beholder. May the curviest bumps win!