I loved the article last week in the NYTimes by Dominique Browning about being too old for certain shit and not even caring if you are too old for it. And definitely giving zero fucks if some slightly younger bitch who is still bothering to pull out her rogue grey pubes gets all haughty and says: “Don’t say “old,” say “wise,” BECAUSE OLD IS A BAD WORD AND MAKES US ALL UNCOMFORTABLE.
It shouldn’t though. Old is an empowering word. Young is for amateurs. Old is the new black, trust. Everyone is rocking it. I just got a solid case of the olds recently and I don’t completely hate it and neither should you. Stick with me, I’ll take you under my soft downy wing and show you the way, don’t be scared.
Last week at Loblaws, I ran into this woman I know from the gym. We haven’t seen each other since the heyday of Lululemon active wear, right before Chip Wilson opened his big douchey mouth and made those of us who want to take a stand against the Donald Trump of yoga turn elsewhere for our camel toe game. So yeah, we haven’t seen each other in 1 or 2 or 3 or 4 years, who knows, as you know, time flies whatever your age is….however long ago it was, she looked amaaaazing. She’s about 5 years younger than me in her mid-to-late forties and her hair was all blown out and her face all smooth and Botoxed. Okay, relax, I’m not being mean, I’m saying this because I know the injectables and my bae Botox just makes you look rested and not like you’re up all night playing on-line Scrabble with an internet troll in a different time zone, drinking vodka, and bouncing off the walls, trying to find a flattering angle for your titties to Snapchat. She looked super fit, like in her prime hotness. AND LIKE SHE’S BEEN GOING TO THE GYM EVERYDAY. Shit. So this was the conversation:
Me: “Hi!!! How are you?”
She: “Great! How are you? Are you still going to the gym?”
Me: “Yes! Well…. no…actually. Yes, I do go and walk in the door but since they started moving things around for the renovations, I can’t figure it out, so I just flail around the hallway and then go drink beer.”
She (nodding): “Yeah, that spinning room in the squash court is kind of brutal.”
OBVIOUSLY SHE KNOWS THIS BECAUSE SHE ACTUALLY DOES THE CLASSES. I have only heard about this makeshift spinning room in a squash court but I’m waiting for it to come back when they’re done with this reno. I hate change and I’m too old for bright lights.
Me (upper body collapsing on my glutenous white carb laden grocery cart): “I just let the menopause hit, I didn’t bother reading that Suzanne Somers book. Estogen Shmestrogen. I don’t care anymore….”
She looked at me incredulously like I was a frog on a highway and she and her pert antioxidant-filled shopping cart scuttled away before we could talk about how our kids were doing. I had a case of the olds and she was not going to catch it. No, she’s going to run from it. And probably train for a Tough Mudder along the way. Ha ha, the joke’s on her, there’s nothing more ageing than doing some archaic strenuous shit squinting in the sun. “You choose the face or the body,” said the grand old bitch Catherine Deneuve, who wisely chose the face, knowing that the thickened middle pudge is practical for holding Netflix on the laptop and trays of snacks and cans of beers or whatever.
YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CAN’T HIDE, THE OLDS ARE COMING FOR YOU, TOO! I wanted to warn her but best let her find out for herself. Cue the theme song from Jaws.
So yeah, she will get the olds in due time and there’s not much she can do about it. But like all of life’s curve balls, it’s how you flail your bat at them that counts. I’m not even sure that’t the right metaphor but you know what I mean. At some point she will tire of fighting with her glorious hair and it will start looking all fantastically witchy when the silvers start winning. She will also finally get that postal feeling of irascible rage over the song “Footloose” and stop spinning all together like I did. Then finally, by the light of the giant harvest moon in 2019 she will burn all her Lululemons in a giant bonfire and she will yell; “I’M OLD AS FUCK AND I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE!” And we will embrace her in our old-as-fuck community by getting our Botox on because we are never to old for botulism injectables.
It’s all good. Here’s a random list of things I’m too old for, let me know yours:
- Grown ass adults having birthday parties. Unless the booze is free.
- Having to continuously re-download the annoying Kik app for a D pic because a certain type of Tinder dude is too paranoid about his precious package to send by old-fashioned text message. Having said that, the last one was worth it.
- Winged eyeliner…reluctantly :( but it’s just too much work.
- Yelling at customer service phone representatives like a toddler as though the world owes me HBO and faster internet for free. I am NOT going to become one of those cantankerous cane-tapping old bats who get their way only because they are about to die on an ice floe unbeknownst to them. Instead I will always use my freakishly girlish phone sex voice in order to get free stuff.
And like the NY Times article says, just because you’re old, doesn’t mean you can’t embrace new things and make new friends. Also things you shouldn’t have to apologize for because you’re old as fuck, here’s my list:
- Lipstick, especially those bold colours from the 80s that only Gwen Stefani gets away with. I know the olds come with those vertical lines that can make a mess of things but! Fuck it. Also I have discovered those 8-hour BJ-proof-stay-on formulas like Kat Von D’s Everlasting from Sephora, caveat: You have to paint it on carefully with a super steady hand so get rid of last night’s martini shakes by having good morning Caesar BUT! Once you get it on and let it dry, you can eat a gooey delicious croque madame sandwich and your lips will stay intact. Oh, also: I put this shit on in public because I’m too old to care.
- Long Island iced tea, let’s bring these back in style, mama needs to howl at the moon again.
- Tinder. Where has this app been all my life? This is the dating app for those who don’t have time or the life skills for meaningful relationships and base their attraction solely on a few photos and a couple of sentences. Me: Boobs, Soft downy wings, Sandwich maker, OCD hair twirler, Boobs…Looking for a D for my V. How concise is that? The boys in the photos are all flying through the air on bungees, parachutes, and trampolines. Catch me if you can, bitches, they seem to be saying. Swipe left and it’s nope, you can fly off the cliff and die, dude; Swipe right, and yes, we can totally bone if you can hold still for a second. Of course, nothing has come of this for old as fuck moi because everyone on this has severe ADD and they expect you to stop what you’re doing RIGHT NOW and come over PRONTO. I need witty banter for lubrication and Tinder boys can’t take light repartee, unless you’re asking them what their favourite boneage position is, they’re like, “you’re wasting my time, lady” and off into they go into ether on their roller blades or pogo sticks. Whatevs, like I care. Maybe I am too old for this, but I’m waiting patiently to catch the great white whale. Also I get a cheap little thrill when there is a match which means both of us swiped right! This is destiny at work! Then I plan the mock wedding:
- Dumb bridal shows, like “Say Yes to the Dress.” This is my Friday night guilty pleasure slash porn. Back cleavage makes me gleeful. I don’t know why.
- Your dad, please have him call me.