On Being Called GRANDMA When With Your Young Children

Recently, one of the women that I am on a BB with talked about how strangers were referring to her as Grandma if she was out with her kids. Undoubtedly, that is not the kind of comment that makes you go out and take on the day. At 49, I have had that happen to me several times. So in that vein, if I did all the things it would take to make me look younger I would:


 1.Lose more weight (and I just read a study that said skinny people are perceived as older because fatter people's skin stretches and you can't see the lines) So I am carefully looking at my options here and an ice cream sundae that is calling out too me  
2. I would lose the van and get a 2 seater sports car (that isn't going to happen anytime soon) 
3. have my own personal crane to hoist certain sagging body parts up but that is out of the question because I can't afford the teamsters operators fees for the crane operator.
 4. elect to have surgery, surgery, surgery...unfortunately it is all considered elective no matter how many times I have argued with my insurance if you are going to pay for viagra then it is only fair that you pay for a tummy tuck, butt tuck and anything else the doc is willing to tuck. And really, if all us "grandma's" looked that good the Viagra market would tank. Obviously, the BIG PHARMA would NEVER allow that to happen
 5. I would hire a couple of old men to walk around and call me "Mom" and everyone will think I look fabulous but I really don't like all the paperwork that would entail unless I could pay them under the table so as to not endanger their social secutirty
 6. Pay my kids to call me "sis" while we are out in public but unfortunately I think they would refuse citing the creepiness clause. 
7. Divorce my husband and marry Castro so the next time someone said that to me I could yell "Off with their head!" It would certainly make those idiots who say things like that think twice! 
8. Yell out "these are my grandchildren? Last time I saw them they had blond hair and blue eyes. What did you do with my other grandchildren? Police! Police!"

So instead of going to all the time and effort of the above I have elected to:

1. Get a shot of botox right between the eyebrows since that large crevice makes me look angry all the time. I don't do the eyes or anything else just that horrid spot that makes me look tired and mean 
 2. I am considering telling everyone that I am a 65 yo Grandma and then instead of them thinking I look old their perception of me will change immediately and they will tell me how great I look for my age. I am also thinking about carrying around a very expensive jar of face cream that I will sell to them for $300 so they can look as good as I do at (cough, cough) 65. 

Okay, I am done. See your sense of humor also gets worse when you get to be my age! So does the dementia!

When Did I Cease To Exist?

Today I went to the store not wearing something that 10 years ago I swore I never would... makeup. And I paid for it dearly just like I thought I would during all these many years of not venturing out the door without, at the very least, a good coat of mascara. As far as I was concerned my lack of an encounter with the sales girls confirmed my suspicions that no makeup=no service. So I just stood there at the counter while two young sales clerks had a gossip fest that would make Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons proud. And finally I started to get annoyed. But here is the thing. It wasn't so much that the girls were ignoring me that upset me but it was the fact that I was all but invisible to them. HUH? Since when did this cloak of inconspicuousness begin to envelope me? I mean it seems like just yesterday I was 25 and men would whistle and sales women couldn't wait to give me the time of day. So when did I become invisible?

I wish I could pinpoint a time, a day or an event that I could look back on and blame. A day which I could say "Ah ha. It was the day you stopped dying your hair," or something significant like that. Yet,if the truth is told, I do have a vague idea of when this slide into nothingness began. It was around my 40th birthday. When I gained weight and crows feet all in the same year. The year the Dow dropped precipitously and so did my boobs.It was the year my collagen supply diminished and my shoe size increased as everything in my body suddenly let go and "loosened" up. Instantly I was no longer youthful nor desirable to Madison Avenue or the man on the street. Society began to dictate no more cute low cut dresses, open toe shoes or fishnet hose for me. In fact, the sales girls in some sort of giggly, jiggly, conspiracy started steering me towards the matronly woman department. You know the place. It's where they sell swimsuits with huge explosive pink flowers and aprons to cover your ass, sensible shoes without heels and White Shoulders perfume. And come to think of it, after turning forty I never again received free samples of tanning lotion, sculpting gel or feminine deodorant spray in the mail. Now its just, AARP news, denture cream and life insurance as touted by Ed McMann that clutters my mailbox.

This invisibleness I have taken on is not of my choosing and somehow it doesn't seem fair nor does it suit me. I mean come on when my mother was 40 she was OLD. I on the other hand, well I am hip, still a little sassy and can still have a decent conversation with "the girls" about sex that would make even Oprah squirm. In fact, I almost jumped into the sales girls conversation when it started venturing towards men's body parts. But instead I laughed out loud thinking about how young, inexperienced and naive they were. It was then that they turned, and gave me "THE LOOK" that told me they thought that dementia was settling in and making a permanent home in my brain.

"May I help you?" asked a 19 year old bleached Blondie named Brittany with a permanent Botox IV drip inserted under her skin as she sashayed over to where I stood.

"I believe you can. I want the biggest jar of anti-wrinkle cream you have," I said with a smile.

She gave me the "poor pitiful you there is nothing that can help" look as she placed my purchase in the bag.

"Oh and I threw in a free sample of the newest and most technologically advanced firming cream on the market," she said patting me condescendingly on the hand.

And it was at that moment I grew comfortable in my aging skin. For in that second, I knew without a doubt, that invisible and forty-five was a thousand times better than insecure and nineteen. Sure she may have the world by the tail but give it a few years and she would soon be directed to the matrons department by girls just like her. Only she would be scared, not confident. She would be feeling dread, not optimism. For luckily "Age" has been speaking to me with a comforting nod to the future while for others, "Age" digs her stilettos in, fighting to remain in the past. It was obvious Brittany would be one of those.

I took pity on her. I reached into my bag and placed the new miracle of science back into her hand.

"Darling you take it," I said with a laugh. "In fact, take all of it," I laughed shoving the bag into her hands. "Believe it or not someday you will need it."

And with that, I turned and headed over to the hat department. There I found a vibrant scarlet red one; it's upturned brim spotted with leopard material. It sits in my closet waiting as I bridge the gap between young and old, wise and wishful, content and always searching. Next to it rests information on The Red Hat Society where I know I will fit right in, no longer invisible. Because no matter how old I am or how many highway mileage markers line my face I will still have my verve, my zest for living, a sense of humor and my nerve. Red and purple have a way of making sure of that.