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Posts Tagged ‘gray hair’

Age

I have reached a difficult age. 

Next month I will turn 50.

How the Hell did that happen?

My brain seems to think I stopped aging somewhere in my 20’s even if my knees and hips disagree.  But, if I remember correctly, at that point of my life everything revolved around dirty pants, snotty noses and projectile vomiting. 

Being a ranch wife, dealing with bodily secretions is an everyday affair but now that I think about it – it has been a couple of years since I had to change anyones dirty pants.  Maybe I have gotten older.

Sure, there’s a few gray hairs that I never noticed before.  I suppose I could dye my hair but since I’m pretty much lazy when it comes to that kind of stuff I know I would end up with one of those 2 tone hair do’s that make people cringe as they stare at the top of your head and their brains scream inside their head “CHECK OUT THOSE ROOTS!!!!!!”  So instead of taking care of it I just tell myself that I’m not going gray – I’m going platinum blonde like Marilyn Monroe. 

Hey, it could happen.

So I go along, quietly living in my own little world of make-believe when one day out of the blue something happens that slaps me up-side-the-head and dashes my misguided beliefs.

 Last week was one of those days.  

After work I made a quick stop at the local department store.  The latest ‘Pirate’ movie was out and I had to have my very own copy so I could drool over Captain Jack Sparrow and dream about being a mermaid – all in the privacy of my own home.  I was feeling good & looking fine as I sashayed my way through the store, picking up a few things before I headed for the 16-year-old kid at the cash register.  He flashed me a smile, rang up my purchases, called me ‘ma’am’ and announced the total of my order. 

A crease furrowed my delicate brow.  How could this be?  Not only did he call me ‘ma’am’ but my whole purchase had added up to less than the cost of the movie alone.  Being the kind and good-hearted woman that I am, I chalked up the whole” ‘ma’am’ thing” to good manners and a strict upbringing by his folks but obviously the misguided young man had made a mistake on his register.

Quietly, I pointed this out to the ‘infant’ behind the counter – not wanting to embarrass him in front of the people in line but sure that he would be forever grateful that I had been honest enough to point out his mistake – thereby saving him from a shortage in his till and being fired from his job.   But with a bright, innocent smile on his acne covered face he announced to all within earshot (roughly the whole store) that it was Senior Discount Day and he had deducted my discount.

I stood there, shocked and appalled.  Glaring at him, I pictured in my mind the expression of terror that would transform his face if I  jumped the counter and bitch-slapped the little bastard! 

I would have done it (if it hadn’t taken $7.53 off my purchase). 

You see – basically, I’m cheap – so instead of chasing the idiot young man around the store and beating him senseless with a bag of chocolates I ran home to my Hubby (who supposedly loves me) and told him how the nasty little boy at the store had insulted me.  Of course there was no sympathy there – Hubby and Paul, the neighbor nearly fell out of their chairs with laughter.

And then there’s the mail…

Did you realize when you turn 50 there are companies out there just waiting to pounce?  You would not believe the letters I’m getting.  American Association of Retired People, life and health insurance, pre-paid funeral planning, bladder control and reverse mortgages.  On one bright point it appears the Marines  have finally given up on getting me to join – and just when I’ve reached the point when I would actually be a real threat to any terrorist or dictator I happened to run into.   Think about it – what could possibly be more frightening than a platoon of angry old ladies air-dropped into a foreign country.  Take away our hormones, tweezers and alcohol and hand us loaded weapons instead.  Sure, we would look innocent enough – at least till our beards filled in – but BAMM as soon as the alcohol withdrawals started – look out!  No one would be safe.

 And how about our dear friends at AARP?  Just for the record I would like to give you a little piece of advice on salesmanship.  Do not start your letters with the sentence; 

“As we grow older…” 

That’s as far as I got before I shredded that letter, lit it on fire and buried the ashes in the back yard by the light of a full moon. Really, who writes this stuff?

Here’s the way I think you should start your letters:

Dear Young Lady,

Here at AARP we know there is absolutely no possible way in Hell that you could be old enough to buy liquor, let alone become a member of our fine organization but since a few years ago (when you were soooo young that your father and mother had to give permission for you to wed) you married a man at least 20+ years older than yourself.  Since the man of your dreams was obviously much-to-old-for-you at that time and since he is now a dusty old fossil you may qualify for some of the benefits we offer.   

We realize that a young and vibrant ‘fox’ – such as yourself may need help dealing with the problems associated with being married to a wrinkled, saggy and overweight old man.  But since he was smart enough to marry such a beautiful, strong and sexy woman, such as yourself, we have given him the benefit of the doubt and decided to offer him some help – through you –  because it’s so very sad that he has not aged as well as he could have and obviously can’t take care of his-own-self….

I could go on but since they’re not paying me I will let them figure out the rest. 

Yes, I had been feeling a little sorry for myself, but then, just when you think you will have to finally accept the facts and agree to age gracefully one bright shinning moment catches you by surprise.  That happened to me a couple of nights ago.  I was headed to garden club but needed to make a quick stop at the grocery store to get vinegar and rum. 

I know it’s a weird combination but the garden is winding down so I have been doing a lot of pickling lately and I really need the rum just to soften the blow of reading the mail these days.

Anyway, there I was with my vinegar and rum when the sweet little old lady at the register looked up through the thick lenses of her glasses, squinted at me under the fluorescent glow of grocery store lighting and asked that immortal question we all feared as youths.

“Are you old enough to buy this?”

God bless her sweet-little-near-sighted-cateract-blinded-heart…

She carded me.

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