Have you ever noticed how men coast through life in the looks department? Some say they even look better as they age. Well, today I was people watching and I made an observation: women at a particular age – I think late 40s – start to look less like women and more like a hybrid between the sexes.
I mentioned this to the person I was with and they whole heartedly agreed, with a whispered “It’s true! But don’t let the cat out of the bag…everyone knows this. It’s just too unkind to mention.”
Is it hormones? Or lack thereof? Am I going to morph into a mannish female and not care or even notice because I won’t have the hormones to feel my loss? Jesus, I’m already too tall and too aggressive. I can’t lose my femininity!
So if I’m 36; I have what . . . 10 to 15 years or so before the drain of girlishness seeps permanently from my body, rendering me a sexless morph?
To quell the panic ensuing in my mind, I try to assure myself that maybe I can I grow old gracefully. Sure, I can look as graceful as a swan. . . until I open my mouth, call someone a lard-ass or say a word like “fudge-packer” and laugh my head off as the person who heard me, says “Ewwww Ingrid, what’s wrong with you!” Any visible grace I might have is crushed under the weight of this mouth. So that’s not going to work. I’m fucked.
Am I going to be wearing khaki shorts, three to four inches above my knees, and a salmon-hued polo top, with the collar up, that exactly matches the person I settled for as a “companion” in 15 years?!?
I’m struggling with my current age, the past, the future and this uncontrollable urge to run and, for lack of a better word, hunt; I need to be an animal, to smell, taste and FEEL, to act on this bottled instinct.
My instinct, an instinct that is oppressed by a culture where it’s all about pets, coupons, 5Ks, non-stop charities and fundraising with no cure in sight, wants me to run away from conversations about TV shows (white people fantasies; men wanting to be Don Draper or women wanting to be bit by vampires) and people who talk about buying cute shit at Target while they hate on Wal-Mart as if one is really ethically a better place to shop. My instinct tells me that wearing asinine Livestrong wrist bands and buying pink cancer crap or autism puzzle ribbon stickers are not movements. All that stuff is just feel-good, heart-string-pulling, FAKE compassion; junk, polluting the world. The only awareness you’ve demonstrated is that your money is now showing up in some rich corporation’s offshore bank account. My instinct says “fuck you” to food fads like quinoa and coconut water, and on and on it goes. It’s all just clutter. Yet no matter how much my instinct has all this clutter backed up against a wall, my instinct still loses; I never get to hunt. I don’t have a pack to run with; I am alone.
And now, on top of all my angst that never seems to leave me or find me in the comfort of a man (a dreamy, sentimental brainiac who would slip his huge hand in mine and build me a cabin in the woods, in return for which I would adjust his mood, soothing any angry thoughts from his mind as we sustain our lives on books, records, red wine and love alone) I have in my future the blow of losing my visible feminine sexuality and wearing polo tops with the collar up!
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