I'm Like Fine Wine, Baby

My husband has been saying the phrase, “middle-aged” a lot, as in, referring to himself, as in, lumping me in his “old” category, as our birthdays are only months apart. This is uncomfortable to me and I don’t really think I even need to explain why. Saying you are old is like having a rash on your butt; it really sucks, but you can’t scratch it because admitting to it would just be weird. You can’t really do anything about getting old except accept it and do it gracefully. Or so I’ve heard.

With my usual savoir faire, I plan to just skip it all and deny, deny, deny. Take my dad for instance, he accepted it. He wears long, black dress-socks with shorts and sandals, the epitome of senior citizen, and he is totally fine with it. In fact, we even have pictures of it and he never looks one bit embarrassed. He also does a lot of crossword puzzles too, but I will let that slide.

The quandary for me is this; all the older people I know never feel old, so how do you know when you are? How do you know when to start wearing fanny packs and lace up Naturalizer shoes? How does one discern just when the peak moment is to dye ones hair blue? Is there a section in department stores filled with *shudder* elastic waisted pants with garish designs and zip up crinkly jackets? Does bright, blue eye shadow and pink-frosted lipstick just show up at your door one day or do you have to make a special trip for it? What about open-toed orthopedic sandals worn with brown pantyhose, how will I know the time and place for such snazzy footwear? How about doilies, lap blankets, and towels to cover my car upholstery? How do I get that stuff? I can tell the middle age road towards being old is fraught with decisions, none of which I know the answer to, but I do assume that the key word is “comfort.” I imagined myself as an old lady still rocking long blonde locks and wearing my stilettos to Bingo, but that is a little creepy so I may have to change the game plan.

I had a serious discussion with K a few weeks ago about which road I should take towards old age, the “nip/tuck” or the “au natural.” He was no help so I had to figure it out on my own. I think my current solution is to “nip” the parts that are visible to the rest of humanity and “tuck” the other offenders into good foundation garments with plenty of wire support. But mark my words, I will never wear sandals with black socks or flamingo print Bermuda shorts or sun visors with permed hair fluffing over the top. And I will stick to that as firmly as my pledge to never own a minivan. Laters.