Fucking hell.
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.”
Fucking hell.
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!
Fucking hell.
© Mad Question Asking – 2012 All Rights Reserved
I susupect that your soul is too fierce and too free to ever even consider a salmon colored polo shirt.
I don’t know Donna, I may get suckered into cultural submission in a decade or two. My soul may just get worn down from fighting alone. See you tonight, looking forward to planning a book party with you. It’ll take my mind off of thoughts of vintage cars and cigarette smoking.
“Youth is wasted on the young.” (George Bernard Shaw) … “Everyone is a genius at being themselves.” (Thelonius Monk) … “Contents may have settled during shipping.” (Box of Pretzels)
You are funny Doc. I like your attitude and your comments. Peace.
Haha! I enjoyed this entry quite a bit! Don’t be frightened (she said lightly)… as a 45 year old woman who believes she can cure what ails her with rock & roll and high-quality dialogue; stick with your instincts. They’re not failing you, they’re reminding you.
Guess what Sally? The second I hit NH’s stateline last week on my way back home, T. Rex’s “Get it On” came on the radio. And I was just trying to convince myself for the four silent hours I drove through Maine’s dismal turnpike, that coincidence is a fool’s mindfuck. Obviously not so, as I had only said a few weeks back NH and T. Rex are perfect together. The odds? Well if you want me for a night, kid-free, I can stop by on the 24th or 25th as I’ll be back up that way…