I’m getting old, guys.
I went to my son’s Halloween party at school, and one of the other second graders gave me a very sweet smile before asking me, “So, whose grandma are you?”
During my job as a high school lunchlady, I recently offended a teenager who proceeded to call me something in Spanish. I don’t speak Spanish, but my friend Rosa does, and I went to her for translation. When she finally stopped laughing, she told me that the girl was calling me a “mean little old lady.”
Well, at least she said “little.”
I recently ran into a friend from my days as a hairdresser, a friend I hadn’t seen since before my car accident. I have changed a lot since then, and I was expecting her to say something about my posture, my weight gain, or perhaps the way my right foot drags a bit when I walk. I was ready for anything. Anything, that is, but “why have you decided not to color your gray?”
The real kicker for me happened this weekend, when I was complaining about the ridiculous heat in my apartment, which I have begun referring to as “the bowels of hell.” I have yet to turn the heat on in this place, but it’s November in Michigan, and I was sitting in front of a wide-open window, gasping for air as the sweat rolled down my back.
Finally, my seventeen year-old gave me a dirty look and an irritated sigh. “It’s not the apartment, Mom,” he told me. “It’s you.”
Oh . . . .so this is what they mean.
If there are any men reading this, ya’ll might as well just go make yourself a sandwich or something. Otherwise, things are about to get uncomfortable around here.
Holy hell, when I heard people talk about hot flashes, I thought I knew what they were talking about. Turns out I had no idea. No idea whatsoever.
I’m suddenly remembering all those articles my seventh grade science teacher made us read about spontaneous human combustion.
How in the bloody hell did I get old enough for hot flashes? I’m still getting acne, for God’s sake. Acne. Zits, wrinkles, periods, and hot flashes, all in the same body.
I am so confused.
Can’t I outgrow one stage before I plunge headlong into the next? Hell, I’m still waiting for the last adolescent growth spurt. I’m hoping for 5’7″.
My body parts have conversations with each other. My knees creak at my ankles, my toes crackle, and my spine tells them all to shut up. I make these awful grunty noises when I bend over, and every so often my right hip snaps so loudly that people around me start looking for gunmen on grassy knolls.
I’ve reached the age at which naps are a lovely thing. Ten minutes here, twenty minutes there, basically any\where that I can sit down and close my eyes. Of course, thanks to my spinal fusion I can no longer lay my head back against the back of the couch, so my head tends to loll around and fall forward when I doze off, which totally freaks my kids out.
Okay, that part of getting older is fun.
I think my next romance novel is going to be about a menopausal woman falling in love with an air-conditioner salesman. Instead of writing sex scenes where everything heats up, I’ll describe scenes in which he turns her on by cooling her off.
Why not? At this point, I’d marry any man who showed up with a fan and a large bag of ice.