The Overthinker strikes again...
Lately I've been really worrying about getting older. Maybe it's hitting 35, or maybe it's because this year my body started hinting that it likes being taken care of. All I know is that I require slightly more care and feeding than I did a few years ago, and I know if I don't take care of my body really well now, I'm gonna be a wreck in 30 years. I don't want that.
I've also been worrying that here, this, today, right now, is the best I will ever look and feel for the rest of my life. This is the clearest I will think. I know how most people treat the elderly-- as irrelevant and with a "that's nice, dear" patronizing pat on the shoulder. It pains me unbearably that someday people will view me only as irrelevant and wrinkly, and will never be able to understand the cool things I've accomplished, the beautiful things I've experienced, and the love I've given and received.
I look at the old ladies who go to my church. Some are typical old ladies-- fake pearls, the once-a-week hairdo, crooked lipstick and comfy rubbery shoes paired with their Sunday Best. I hate to admit it, but I dismiss them. More accurately: Since I don't know how to connect with them, I just give a warm smile and keep walking. I never even make an attempt to connect, to learn about their lives, what makes and made them tick, what choices they made that really worked for them, and which ones they still kick themselves for. Then there are others who are totally polished, put-together, snazzy and sharp; you can see their former youthful, beautiful selves shining from underneath. Why do they make me more comfortable? Why do I respect them more? Why do I believe they are more relevant? I keep coming back to that word: relevant.
I don't ever want to be irrelevant. I don't ever want to be dismissed. I donít want to be ignored or patronized. I am used to being heard and being regarded as somewhat wise. Why do I worry so much lately about the inevitable? It terrifies me.
I know there will be a day when I can no longer wear my hair in antennae, when I can't wear my bee hat and I can't throw on ripped jeans without looking like one of those idiots who think they're 17. But what's the alternative? Soccer-mom gear?
This may sound totally stupid, but I think it has a lot to do with my hair. I've been letting it grow out, and right now I just look like a soccer mom. I have totally lost my mojo. Soccer Moms do not win the World Pinball Championships with "Lima Bean" embroidered on their badass bowling shirt. Soccer Moms do not go to Burning Man dressed as bugs. Soccer Moms do not carouse with bikers. (OK, well, maybe they do.)
Soccer Moms enjoy Thomas Kincaide paintings and Andrea Bocelli albums, and they wear color-coordinated grown-up Garanimal jumpsuits with tapered pants and Easy Spirit shoes.
This will not do. I need to maximize every moment between now and irrelevant.
I must fix this.
Off to Super Cuts!
1 I dreamt that I had my purse draped over my shoulder and hanging by my butt. My back was to an open window, and unbeknownst to me, the dreaded "Tire Man" shut the window behind me and put a tire around my purse, so I was (a) stuck to the window by my purse strap and (b) upset that this guy was digging through my purse and stealing my money. Apparently, in my dream, "The Tire Man" was a known boogeyman on the loose in my parents' neighborhood.
|Fortune Teller Miracle Fish today tells me that I am: A Dead One. Yep, it's cold in here today.|