Confessions of a Middle-Aged White Grrrl
January 8, 2007 at 6:28 Over the weekend, Neil took offense when I referred to him as a hot middle-aged guy WITH hair. He informed me he is not middle-aged because he plans to live to 110. So by Neil’s standard, Rick the Middle-Aged White Guy, is indeed middle-aged, but Neil, exact age unknown, is not.
So where does that leave me? V-Grrrl in the Middle!
Back when I started this blog, I wrote an introduction that said I was old enough to be Mrs. Robinson and young enough to be a geezer’s trophy wife, but Neil has me thinking otherwise.
At the end of the month, I turn forty f***ing five, and you know, not only do I not feel (or look) like Mrs. Robinson, but I’m also past the point of being a trophy wife. I can’t produce a flat stomach OR a trophy baby without serious medical intervention.
Back in Virginia, I used to go walking during the winter at a mall near my children’s school. It opened up early in the morning just for walkers looking to escape bad weather, and the first day I showed up I noticed it was mostly populated by Medicare patients with personal cardiologists. This sounds grim but it had unexpected benefits for me.
Let's face it, a 40-year-old mother of two at a typical fitness facility is surrounded by Barbies in sports bras and short shorts who make her feel flabby and inadequate. Walking at the mall with the blue-haired ladies and liver-spotted men, I got to play the role of super fit, sweet young thing.
At least that was the case until I too acquired a cardiologist and enough gray hair to break out the L’Oreal. Hmmm, maybe the gulf between me and the “old people” at the mall wasn’t as wide as I thought.
Once my cardiologist started me on beta blockers and compromised my stamina, some of those “old ladies” began leaving me in the dust as I ambled breathlessly past Macy’s in my Nikes. Damn! This is not RIGHT! Could I muster the strength to catch up with those wenches before we hit the Victoria’s Secret or would I have to cut corners in front of the JC Penney and gain an advantage on the inside curve around the big planter? The drama of it all.
Mamatulip, throwing up over the prospect of turning 30, doesn’t yet know that you’re not OLD until you’re run over by a woman wearing pristine Easy Spirit sneakers and a fanny pack carrying photos of her grandchildren.
If I hadn’t been so humiliated, I would have chased that old chick down and asked her who HER cardiologist was—and did she know the name of a physical therapist who was good with knees?
Oy.
As I wrote to Rick recently, those of us with sharpening wits and softening middles need to stick together: Old age could hit us at any time.
January 8, 2007
Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. www.v-grrrl.com
Reader Comments (24)
As for Neil ... well blokes start ageing at 18 whereas we women don't start until 40, or that's what I heard on National Radio back home in New Zealand.
Whoever heard of a national radio station getting it wrong eh ;)
Fab-u-lous.
And now...that I'll turn forty f***ing eight in March, the prospect of being 60 in 13 years doesn't seem NEARLY as funny as it once did.
Middle-aged? What's that? That's a description for someone else. The day I hear someone use that term for me, I think I'll expire. Literally. Who invented that, anyway? It's so...definite. It's like the "Use By" date on dairy. Forget that. I'm like Spam and Twinkies. I'll never really age or get stale. I suggest you adopt the same attitude, V. Survival of the...well...you finish it.
Excellent V!
My Dad said something to me recently about me being middle-aged. I told him that since the last two ladies to die in our family (one from each side) were 91 and 90, respectively, I figure I'm not officially middle-aged until I'm 45.
As Shirley MacClaine said in Postcards From The Edge, "I don't mind getting older, but I do mind looking older."
Now, of course, I have exposed myself as an AARP candidate by mentioning Red Skelton, but you get the idea.
So anyway. "When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple." Wait... I already wear purple! Yikes!
I have been back at the gym for two days, now. I hate how freaking FRUMPY I feel!! All those tight young things, hair all done-- Who the hell gets a blow-out to go work out?? Bitches.
;)
...and *I* would. And I am not a young thing. I would personally get totally dolled up to go work out. I don't go ANYPLACE without getting dolled up. I live in the community I teach in. I can't go outside to get my freakin' mail without possibly seeing a student who will report back to the entire school of 2500 teenagers EXACTLY what I was wearing, in excruciating detail, down to my husband's construction Wigwam sox and my enormous navy fleece robe. Trust me. It has happened. I learned. I doll up.