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On Being Over 40 okay 50 I mean 60
Today’s topic is “Getting Older.” Not that I am or anything. Age cannot wither me, nor custom stale my infinite variety. I have many ways of staying engaged.
For instance, recently I went to a department store to treat myself to some shopping. This usually puts me in a good mood. But that day, I made the mistake of stopping at a cosmetics counter manned by a young woman wearing way too much eye makeup. I swear that girl was wearing every product they make, all at the same time. Her eyes looked like two tarantulas.
I didn’t stare, however, being the lady that I am. Instead I was perusing the items in the glass case, minding my own business, when Tarantula Eyes asked me if I would like to have “a makeover.” I just looked at her. I? A makeover? She thinks I need a makeover? Excuse me? I took her by the shoulders and shook her while shouting “Are you serious right now? I will have you know that when I was your age, I looked better than you will ever look in your wildest dreams, you little snot!”
No, ha ha, I didn’t really do that. But I wanted to. Aside from the fact that it was insulting to imply that I was in need of a makeover, did she actually believe I’d allow anyone with her obvious lack of taste to come anywhere near my face?
I mean, look at yourself! False eyelashes before 5 pm, chartreuse eye shadow with sparkles in it, black eyeliner in that “cat’s eye” fashion which makes the person look like a fugitive from a 1963 Dean Martin movie, and two round blots of bright pink blusher. She looked like a puppet. Anyway, I politely said “No, thank you” and continued on my way to the shoe department. I love shoes. Shoes never betray you. They always fit no matter how fat the rest of you gets.
Just when I was starting to recover from the ignominy of that incident, I was sitting here on the sofa watching a movie with my dog, minding my own business, when the phone rang. It was a local number, nothing to alert me that it might be a telemarketer, but it was.
It was a recording of a man’s voice saying in a real cheery tone, “Hello, Senior!” Even though I knew it was a recording, I shouted into the phone, “Don’t call me a Senior! And never call me again! What is wrong with you?!”
I was so mad I decided I needed to go outside and get some air, so I walked out and got the mail. Big mistake. It was all junk mail, and two of them were designed to remind me that I have one foot in the grave. One was an offer for a free hearing test, and the other was selling cemetery plots. I am not even kidding. By the end of the day, I wanted to hit someone with my cane, and I don’t even have one.
“You don’t stop laughing when you grow old, you grow old when you stop laughing.” ― George Bernard Shaw
“Twenty-three is old. It’s almost 25, which is like almost mid-20s.” ― Jessica Simpson
Published in Humor
Beauty, style, humor and the word Ignominy? I’m a massive fan and demand more writing. Not that demands ever gets me anything.
Amen. Fashionistas are an amalgamation of model, cultural anthropologist, and soothsayer — but rarely can they write like this.
Remind me to pay you your five dollars later. No, seriously, thank you, this made my day. And that avatar has to be one of my favorites so far. She is lovely.
Hahahaha you crack me up.
You have a portrait in your attic and it looks just like Helen Thomas, dontcha? Dontcha?
Hahahaha Helen Thomas.
“The older the ginger, the hotter it is.” — ancient Chinese proverb
I remember when my parents were 59. They went to the movies and the guy in ticket booth took it upon himself to give them the senior discount, which was for folks 60 and older. Dad was very happy with the discount, but Mom went off on the guy and made him charge the full price.
My mother is very sweet and quiet. She doesn’t “go off” on people. This, however, was a line she wasn’t going to let anyone cross.
OMG he’s lucky she didn’t shoot him.
RA, do your shoes talk to you, like Mma Makutsi’s shoes talk to her? Careful, boss!
Unless you are pregnant…
Today is my son’s birthday… so on getting older, where does 8 fit?
Or is this age more for me than he? That I have accumulated almost a decade of wisdom in child rearing?
I’m still a baby… but my is he a wonderful boy.
OMG How have I not been aware of books with a character named Precious Ramotswe?
That is wonderful! And you’ll be glad you started young. When they’re out of the house, you’ll still have a whole life ahead of you.
When I turned 55, I was excited (sorta) to be able to order off the senior menu at Perkins. Then they brought the food. Less food. I’m not sensitive about my age, but that was just insulting.
CoC warning:
I’ve been commuting from my place in Chandler, AZ to San Diego these past weeks. I know. It’s terrible, but I’m paid well and our new operation in SoCal is foundering. Remember, I am the fixer of all things. Why not fly, you ask? Well, by the time I drive to the airport, wait for the flight, pick up the rental, drive to the office, etc., it’s a five hour ordeal. It takes five and a half hours to drive. Plus, I enjoy the peace, mindlessly drifting along past desert and field, through and over mountains and on roads blasted through rock. It gives me time to think.
So Monday at 5:45 AM, I start my trip. At the 75 mile mark I reach Gila Bend with its iconic spaceship diner. The initial Venti Latte is calling out to me and it’s time for some breakfast, so I hit the local Mickey Dees. It’s not yet 7 and what does one find at a fast food restaurant in the middle of nowhere in the AZ desert in April? A line nearly out the door and a herd of heartland retirees looking for the definitive discount on bad breakfast food. You never see them in the summer; like relatives, they just appear when the weather is tolerable. (Since I am officially over 62 1/2, I can criticize these folks, my peers really, as they make their deals and trade their coupons.)
“I have a two for one coupon for the Big Breakfast, so do you want to split it with me?” said one woman to the man behind her.
“That’s too much food for me,” he said, though from the look of him, he’d seen many a big meal in his lifetime.
“Can you read the expiration date on this?” another woman asked.
“Expired,” said another.
I was impressed with their tech savvy. They had the latest cell phones and many were mining for digital deals on the complimentary WIFI. Some used phone scanned coupons or paid using their phones. Amazing. Like millennials. Maybe we should call them perennials?
This hubbub, of course, delayed the order of my coffee and sausage burrito. I finally placed my order and waited. This was not the usual McDonalds with its frenetic, brisk pace. This was Gila Bend, a lonely one road fast food and gas stop off the interstate. My burrito was finally delivered as I questioned my earlier decision to avoid the small traffic jam in front of the drive up window.
I’d like to think that it was obvious that I was not a member of this herd of perennials. I was from a different breed, younger, more vibrant, not yet put out to pasture, not yet in need of the definitive senior discount or twofer coupon.
But the truth is, I probably fit right in.
I hate getting old.
A gal visited the other day who I hadn’t seen in ages. She looked great… except for the strange pharaoh thing around her Irish eyes.
Is there any polite way for a man to tell a woman she is spoiling a pretty face?
“Perennials” hahaha!
Ha! We can only sit it out until the next unfortunate trend. Here is my child demonstrating the Cat Eye:
So good was @dougkimball‘s comment, I would have to pay to quote it. Rico, you are one crafty business model.
Pretty. Hers doesn’t look as strange. Certainly, some non-Egyptian faces are better suited for it. And, having grown up in an international trade hub with TV and Internet to make familiar a thousand facial structures and customs, I’m probably better suited than some to appreciate unusual scenarios. But my associate had the stripes going up, rather than out, which was just weird.
Tattoos, facial rings, neon hair… little phases me. But I’ll never get used to white people adorning ear-lobe plugs.
Should I get you one for your birthday?
{{ducking and running for cover}}
I packed a box of vintage shoes yesterday. Don’t know what to do with them. In that box is my first pair of gold lame dancing sling pumps bought 1956 with matching clutch bag. Still in excellent condition. I four pairs of dancing slippers from 50-70s. Would break my heart to toss them. Have a dozen vintage hand bags as well.
Don’t toss them, whatever you do Kay — those will sell. Easy.
Some of the purses were my mothers from 1940-50s
I can’t believe you don’t want me to help you with a make over.
This was awesome. I loved it. Thank you, RA.
Hahahaha! Now that is eerily close to what I saw.
Thanks, Marci!
I’d love to see pictures!