There comes a time in every woman’s life when you realize that you’re considered older by the general populace.
Perhaps it’s being referred to as “ma’am” more often than the youthful “miss.” Or having your children wonder what those “stripes” are on your forehead. You may realize that your dentist isn’t discussing clean gums and plaque build-up so much as preserving your teeth and anticipated root canals. Yet, I still kind of hope that I’ll be carded at BevMo, as unrealistic as that might seem to other shoppers with good vision. And I kind of believe it, too, crazy as that might seem.
I don’t feel old. I assume it is earned experience in dressing that prevents me from prancing out like a mini-clad socialite and not matronly modesty. I can still run a hair faster than my oldest child and hoist two wiggly kids about in a ruckus game of monster. No knee-hi stockings or Geritol tablets for me! I eat an organic diet and avoid preservatives. Age is an attitude, right?
Right?
I find myself at the cosmetic counter of the local department store in need of a new lipstick (since my pinky can no longer pull out the residue of my favorite color). After a few minutes of waiting, the sales attendants finish their chat about hair color and depart to actually help customers like me, thereby interrupting my thought about the lack of manners nowadays and how when I was their age I would have never …
While the sales attendant hunts through drawers of cosmetics, I comment about the witty packaging for scented lotions, muted eye shadows and face masks. When time permits, I’ll return to try out fun new colors and see about that honey scrub.
Transaction completed, she hands me my plastic bag of lipstick and then offers, “I added a couple samples of firming solution for you to try.
“Wha?” Is she kidding me? Firming? I need firming? What have I done to her? I merely came to pick up a simple lipstick and I’m leaving with a “you’re saggy!” send-off?
