Check you out, festive typer. If I didn’t know better I’d say no way you’re stuffy, icky, weaky, sicky *(if that’s not already an Eminem track, I’m granting him the rights to it now) who sends her husband out to experience Rome by himself while counting down the days to get the hump outta here.

Congratulations on the reward—well deserved, when you make an appearance they’re tough to forget. Even when you ain’t runnin at a 100, you’re still the baddest chick I know.