On Saturday, someone referred to me as “grandma.” Not in a “Hey Grandma!” mean-spirited sort of way but in a situation with my niece, as in “Her grandma is over there.” Sigh. Do I really look like a grandma? I certainly know I’m old enough to be one; if I’d had a kid when I was 25 and they had a kid when they were 25, my grandchild would be 2. GAAAAAHHHH!
I feel as though I’ve crossed some sort of rubicon. It’s been a very slow process, as aging is, I suppose. One day you’re 12. Then your 22. And all of a sudden you’re 52. Wha’happened? I’ve always believed women only have a few somewhat amorphous ages: kid, teenager, vaguely no longer living at home but not quite yet a woman, a woman, a woman of a certain age and old lady. I am officially a woman of a certain age, a euphemism for old broad, which I prefer. It’s used for women who are no longer “young” but aren’t quite bent over and ancient. Yet.
I’ve been worried about becoming invisible, being the woman too old to matter, no longer turning heads,, inspiring whistles or receiving admiring glances. I’ve watched these invisible women as people talk over them, bump into them and generally disregard them. I don’t want to be that. Thank heavens I still have “a nice rack,” as my friend Austin puts it, that at least gets me some attention.
Regardless of how much of an old broad I am, I’m still not ready to date an old man. I see fat, balding, totally objectionable dudes with surprisingly pretty women, women who, are, um, similar to me…in age, looks, lack of enormous middle sections and stringy grey hair and orthopedic shoes and…well, you get the picture. This one guy in particular, who I will assume is suuuuper impressed with himself, caused me concern. He was on his way to Figment in his stylin’ kilt. He had all his hair. And a belly the size of Santa’s. But his lady friend was tan and trim and attractive, with auburn hair and a fashionable outfit. I could tell by the way he was conducting himself that he thought he was a real catch. I mean, look at all that hair! Who cares if he has an extra 50 pounds folded over the waistband of his stylin’ kilt? The thought of fucking that guy made me gag. I’d rather not fuck anyone. Which may, actually, wind up being the case!
I’m gonna go dye my hair…