Confessions of a Middle-Aged White Grrrl

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

Comments

[V-Grrrl]

Well Rhea, I guess it's better to get creases in funny places than have tufts of hair growing out of our ears and eyebrows so bushy that they could be used in a reverse comb-over. Women may indeed age better than men.

Nance--NO LIPSTICK AT THE GYM or we'll talk about you!

[Debbie]

I, too, found the image of you as a mall-walker quite funny. Please tell me you did not wear a fanny pack though or I will come all the way to Belgium to smack you!

[Di]

Oh ... that wasn't the gracious acceptance I was expecting Neil.

I read a rather superb Jack Nicolson interview the other day ... I think it's okay to be a bloke ageing in LA.

Having passed the 40 mark and having a granddaughter ... the ice under me is thin when I mock ;)

[wendy]

Tip one: pick blindish older guys.

Tip two: Pick classes that flatter you. In one of my competitions, they call age class....Masters.

Age has made you very deep and wise and funny.