On the 4th of July about two years ago (actually, it was 18 months, 25 days and a few hours ago… but who’s counting?), two separate people mistook me for my friend’s mother. My friend is 40 which would make me 60 at a minimum. I was 44.
The first one was a guy who was about 35 years old, a doctor (so, presumably, not stupid) who is married to someone about 10 years younger than I was at the time. The comment stung but I laughed it off (uncomfortably), saying something like, “you’re either drunk or stupid” at which time he backpedaled ineptly and I pronounced him drunk and stupid. Hahahahaha. Let’s get on with our day.
The next one left a mark. She was the mother of another acquaintance and was, herself, somewhere north of 60 so, in effect, she thought I was her contemporary, a card carrying member of the AARP. Ouch. Then, the coup de grace: I went outside and told my husband what had happened.Â Being not so bright himself, he cracked wise with this zinger: “That’s okay, honey You can lose some more weight and you can go get some plastic surgery. “Double ouch.
I’m ashamed to say that I promptly went to my room and cried, forcing all my friends come to me on a futile pilgrimage to try to make me feel better. In that moment, I wasn’t 44 or 60. I was 8. The ugliest, fattest girl in the world.
The next morning, the husband of one of my of friends (who had missed the whole episode, thank goodness) scoffed at the whole affair, reminding me that when you get any basket full of opinions, you have to throw out the top and the bottom. Everything else is worth considering. In that moment, he was not only a smarter husband than my own, but a wiser man all around.
In any case, the whole thing started a new episode of my life, one where I am determined not to become old (in every sense of the word) until I absolutely cannot hold back the tide anymore. Since that lovely summer day, I have explored fillers, lasers, facials, hairstyles, hair treatments and dyes, new eating plans, exercise options, fashions … and ways of being that will help me on the quest which, if I’m lucky, will end when Alzheimers takes my mind (in which case, I won’t know or care anymore, thank God).
Come with me if you will … let’s see if we can put some lipstick on this pig and make her fly!
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