Have you ever had one of those weeks where life, truth and reality smack you in the face? I believe I had that this week. I looked in the mirror and I saw my grandma staring back at me. Not that there's anything wrong with that, she was a vibrant, intelligent and attractive enough "older" woman. There's the thing I guess. I have come to realize that I am in fact...gulp...old.
I should consider myself fortunate I suppose. I have already outlived my mom by six years. In fact, I've outlived a lot of people. I hate to admit this, but from time to time, I find myself looking at the death notices in the newspaper. I check birth years to see how many people around my age have died while I'm still here. It's almost like winning a lottery...almost, not quite.
On Thursday, I went to a local chain drug store hoping it was Seniors' Day. It was. I could tell instantly by the offensive and excessively loud blaring music. "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to, cry if I want to..." 1963...Yuck. Did anyone really enjoy that fifty years ago? Was this some store manager's brilliant idea to make seniors feel more comfortable when shopping? The "music" was distracting and annoying.
I selected my items quickly and as I checked out, I asked the cashier, who was about my daughter's age, how she could stand listening to that. "Isn't it horrible?" she asked.
"Yes," I responded. "I must admit, I really like all the modern stuff...Train, Flo Rida, Pitbull, Fun,Wanted, LMFAO". I thought my list might impress her and make her think I was "hip" or whatever the 2012 equivalent of that word is.
"Wow, " she said, then gave me a further response that I could have lived without. "You're just like myyyyyyyyyyy grandma. She likes all those too." I picked up my senior's discounted shopping and left.
Last week, my hairdresser was unavailable and I was therefore rejected for a desperately needed hair appointment. I sent a "Help" email message that explained how my current coiff can only be described as the look that would occur if Clay Aiken and Phyllis Diller had a baby together. I then decided that my sylist is not old enough to know who Phyllis Diller is, so I went on to confess that I had resorted to nail scissors and had trimmed my own bangs. She really shouldn't always leave them so long that they grow down to my upper lip before my next scheduled appointment. Wait, perhaps those aren't my bangs. On the other hand, the bangs do cover up my runaway eyebrows. Why do my formerly non existent eyebrows feel the need to grow and be so unruly all of a sudden?
Anyhow, I suggested that if she couldn't fit me in for an appointment next Friday, I'd have to use one of my free samples of mystery colour hair foam to disguise the current state of my "mature hair". Humph, mature hair. Who am I kidding? It's gray. Gray around the gills as the expression goes. Perhaps I should go "au naturel". Maybe I should get one of those cuts and perms. Then I'd have short, curly gray hair like other old women. Five minutes later, I received a phone call. Friday morning 11 a.m. it is. Okay, I won't go for the senior look just yet.
While I was shopping with a friend, I shared some information with her. I said that someone I haven't seen for a number of years thought I "had work done". When the laughter subsided, my friend asked, "What was her first clue, your sagging neck, your jowl or that giant wrinkly line that runs down your face? I hear they always leave some things like that to make plastic surgery look more authentic." She chuckled again.
Yep, that was it. Reality check. That was the moment. Isn't it great when you have friends that tell you the truth, whether you want to hear it or not?