By Pam Stone
Most of us have probably seen, on the news or the Internet, the unveiling of Bruce Jenner’s rebirth into Caitlyn Jenner, gracing the cover of Vanity Fair magazine.

 

I gotta tell ya, at first glance, I thought it was Cindy Crawford: the thick, chestnut hair tumbling down over her shoulders, the smoky eyes with lashings of mascara, the ample cleavage spilling over the top of the ivory corset.

 

(And you know it must be just killing Kris Kardashian to see that her ex-husband is now hotter than she’ll ever be.)

 

I’d be spitting nails. As well as getting the number of Caitlyn’s make-up artist, stat.

 

Seriously, anyone who can make a 65-year-old with sun damage that smokin’ hot needs to be kept on retainer.

 

If there’s one thing I’m jealous of in this whole story, it’s the fact that Caitlyn got to choose her own name and in doing so, gives the added appearance of being decades younger. You see, Bruce was born in 1949 when the most popular names were, among others, Margaret, Shirley and Mary.

 

That would be sexy, splashed across a magazine cover, huh? “Introducing Harriet Jenner!!”

 

Um, no.

 

But becoming Caitlyn means you were probably born in the early 1990s. You’re around 25, fresh faced, and paying down student debt. You still get carded.

 

T’ain’t fair!

 

I don’t mind the name Pam, boring as it is, or, my full name, Pamela, although I still shudder at my middle name, Mary, as not only does it sound as ancient as Ma Kettle, it also makes my initials “PMS.” Not my mom’s fault; at the time of my birth there was no scientific description yet developed for legally slamming a man over the head with a mallet because he muttered at the end of a disagreement, “Must be that time of the month.”

 

But if I could choose my own name, today, sure, like Caitlyn, I’d go with something fresher, something younger. Stacy would mean I was born in the mid to late 1960s and Melissa would mean I’m about 42. If I blew up my lips into a manufactured trout pout with a dozen injections of collagen and a full facelift, I could be really silly and try to get away with calling myself Madison.

 

I agree, a bit ambitious, that. I’d need a really tight scrunchie and a wing-nut on the other side of my head to make that one believable.

 

At any rate, enjoy your glamorous new life, Caitlyn. Enjoy your endless, new, wardrobe, full-length mirrors and kitten heels. It won’t all be a bed of roses, though. Good moisturizers cost a fortune and making 73 cents on the dollar means you’re going to have to budget a whole lot more. And there’s going to be days when all you want to do is get home and out of that damned bra. But the Pams, Debs, and Sharons of the world all wish you a long life of health, happiness, and great lighting.