I am a cliché. A pathetic, text book cliché. Here I sit in my pajamas, watching bad late night TV. The commercials? Tena Pads. (Don’t miss a beat, nothing drips when Tena twists!) Check. Cialis. If I had a penis in my life, I’m sure it would probably require some of this shit in order for the hydraulics to work. Especially based on the dudes who’ve been wooing me on OKCupid. And OurTime. Osphena, the new prescription drug for “painful post-menopausal intercourse.” Wow, that one’s a doozy. “Mature” models rolling around in bedsheets, talking about how intercourse shouldn’t hurt. No fuckin’ kidding. But without a penis, there’s no need. Of course I might get the stuff just so I can bust out my biggest dildo. They didn’t mention that use in the commercial.
I watch Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune and hear all about reverse mortgages from Henry Winkler, CoQ10 for my joints and Polident for my dentures. Oh. And the new patch that will prevent me from pissing my pants. I’m a sitting-duck demographic.
Another cliché? The little old lady making stuff. It used to be granny in her rocking chair, knitting. Now it’s frumps felting, old broads beading and, in my case, a crone crafting crowns and tiaras. My brain is exploding with creativity, evidently another by-product of being post menopausal. See, where once the BODY was driven to CREATE, now that reproduction is no longer possible, the HANDS must pick up the slack, so to speak. You know, empty womb, full Etsy store!
I have a little, bitty dog that I talk to incessantly and treat like my child. I go to the grocery store in my pajamas. My hair usually looks like I’ve been in some sort of bombing mishap. I’ve almost completely succumbed to skirts. I can go a whole week without a shower. I eat cookies in bed. In addition to my habits of watching too much TV in dirty laundry and eternally crafting, I’ve become a huge grumbler. Everyone and everything pisses me off. Pretty soon I’ll be shaking my cane at people. I must already look like a lunatic. Strangers are constantly giving me funny looks. In response, I STARE THEM DOWN. Sometimes I even say “What?!” They never answer me. Is it my tri-colored hair? My refusal to dress “old?” Think my pre-teen wardrobe clashes with my crows feet? What the fuck are you lookin’ at?
I’d like to be more like the women in “Advanced Style” but I can’t be bothered. It’s all too much trouble. One day I manage to bathe myself and put on clean clothes. That match. And are vaguely chic. The problem is, the next day I just put on the same damn thing. And the next day. And the next… Probably the most worrisome thing is that I find myself opting to stay home. Stay in. Shut out the world and all of its fucking…youth. I’d rather sit on my couch than venture and, make an effort and be met with…indifference.
There’s a reason why we don’t see older people “out on the town” and I’m betting it’s not because they enjoy being antisocial. Or alone. It’s because they’re tired of being invisible. The pro-active person in me is inspired to produce events aimed at my demographic. To get us collectively off our couches. But I’ve attempted to “help” people in the past. Single people don’t often appreciate being labeled as “unhappily un-coupled.” How eager do you think 40-somethings might be to hear about my “Miserably Middle Aged Mixer?” Exactly. Well, I’ll be working on that while I sit here sewing chapeaux.