It may be the new forty but sometimes it’s the same old crap. Turning fifty was no big deal; I was prepared for this milestone in my life, especially when so many talented women before me welcomed fifty ever so gracefully. Who am I to shake the apple cart? I just needed to get a stiff upper and newly waxed lip, put on my best poker face, and hit fifty in full stride. Okay, maybe my stride was not so full.
I’m one of the lucky ones. Good genes and lack of sun exposure has given me the “you don’t look fifty” or “you’re a Grandmother?” responses which quite frankly feed my lackluster ego.
Yes, I’ve had the dubious pleasure of early menopause which resulted in the onslaught of belly fat that even imaginary weapons of mass destruction cannot blast away. I am equipped with an internal heating system that rears its ugly head at the most inopportune times forcing me to strip off several layers of clothes to the disappointment of the young man behind the counter who is ringing up my basket of Slim Fast everything. Yeah, it all makes for a good laugh. I’m laughing all the way to the “Fat Farm.”
What really irks me, beyond the extra facial hair, the excess ring around the belly and my contribution to global warming with my round the clock hot flashes is that after all of this, I still got to deal with silly men?
Now I’m not a man basher, I love men, particularly those who actually listen but doesn’t the fact that I’m half a century old warrant me a break from the age old chauvinist species that still thinks with the wrong organ? I mean, come on…give an old girl a break.
I won’t bore you with every silly scenario but I was called “dear” by a man probably in his last forties as he politely informed me that my car repairs would actually cost more than its low blue book quote. Now, granted I don’t know the whole story, but when a young woman with even younger perky breasts came in, I couldn’t help but overhear how he would help her out and cut her a deal! I thought to myself, if I could yank my breasts up from around my knees, would I get a deal? I realized there was not enough manpower to make my breasts twenty perky!
Okay, so then off to the grocer, where the lines were quite long. I stood patiently, shifting from foot to foot waiting for the next checker to come up. He did and lo and behold, he walked up to the young lady behind me in her “I can’t lean over and pick anything up,” mini skirt and took his good old (because he was old, old enough to be her father) time ringing her two items up. When he was done, he shut off the light and took said items to her car. I was still standing in line with my basket of “I’m getting old purchases” when he returned. He didn’t open another register. He was done for the day.
I’m not asking these elder men to wave giddiness when they’re in the presence of a younger, prettier, and lest we forget, perkier woman. Go for it dude. Just don’t leave tire tracks on my back, trying to get to them. Didn’t your mama ever tell you to “respect your elders?” I don’t expect these men to flirt with me, offer to carry out my package of Twinkies, or display Cleopatra type attention onto me. Just acknowledge me, especially, when you’re taking my money and don’t call me “dear”. I’m not your dear, cupcake, honey, or sweetie pie. I’m the woman who’s going to kick your touché because my fifty is the new forty and your fifty is just old.
