GenY are a brash lot. They call a spade a spade, and I'm sort of cool with that, but not totally.
OK, I'm not.
And that's because when I was a young lass it was considered impolite to make direct comments to people about age-related matters. At least not to their wrinkly faces.
But Gen Yers like to slam the truth home without thinking about the hurt feelings of their defenceless older victims. I'm sure it's well-intentioned, but sometimes I could live without it. It's not as though I'm unaware of gravity taking its toll.
The latest insult came from my almost-15-year-old daughter, The Hiss (aka Miss Hissy Fit).
I'd just stepped out of the shower when she barged into the bathroom - entering without knocking is another trait of this generation, which has no idea about the concepts of privacy and personal space.
The Hiss screamed and staggered backwards, looking repulsed.
"Oh, my God," she squealed.
"What is it?"
"Your boobs. They're so low."
I glanced in the mirror and pulled back my shoulders. "Get out," I shrieked.
As she retreated, she still managed to fling one more salvo my way before I slammed the door. "I'm sorry Mum, but I didn't realise they sag so much when you get older."
The Hiss thinks that adding "sorry" makes amends.
I'm reading this now and having a giggle. At the time, I stood and looked at my breasts, which I love, and raised my arms over my head. They obligingly moved upwards and into their 1996 position.
The year The Hiss was born.
I'm not even sure if there's a moral to this story (usually, it's: don't have kids). I feel blessed to still have my saggy boobs and to have travelled this far with them.
I guess the moral is to enjoy what you've got, and occasionally stretch your arms above your head to take stock of what you've left behind.
PS: Hopefully, this saggy-boobed biatch will be back on the beach this weekend at Stanwell Park. See you there.
PPS: No, that's not me. It's 1960s sex symbol Gina Lollobrigida sussing out Stanwell Park conditions.