Aging gracefully

A ging gracefully? It’s my birthday month!

I just love celebrating me. I used to think you shouldn’t throw yourself a party, but the truth is, I want a party, and at the upcoming age of 46, I’ve decided I can do what I want.

My mom recently reminded me that her mother used to say, “When you get old, you can just say and do what you want.”

I think I’ll start claiming I’m old, although I’m sure my grandmother likely was referring to more mature women, perhaps approaching or past retirement age.

Forty-six is old enough to be the blunt, opinionated truth-teller that’s been lurking behind polite tactfulness since college, right?

I imagine my kids will start calling me “Karen,” with apologies to all the actual Karens I know, who are all lovely. I mean, I didn’t choose the moniker to label the type of woman who always wants to speak to the manager.

But seriously, sometimes you do have to speak to the manager! Sometimes, you’re speaking with a literal child who can’t vote or buy tobacco or even see a doctor without a parent, and she is absolutely clueless about how you are supposed to get your groceries delivered in a thunderstorm.

Yes, this actually happened in Maine. There was no manager available, so I took matters into my own hands and showed up as the delivery driver to pick up my own groceries.

Karens, in my opinion, know how to make things happen.

I still fall back into my old ways of avoidance and apathy when it comes to myself. Oh, my steak is well-done when I ordered it rare? That’s fine, it’s fine, I’ll just gnaw on it until dessert. Oh no, I won’t be needing a box.

But if one of my children ends up with the short end of the stick, Karen comes out to play.

Not rude Karen, not most of the time. Just Get-er-done Karen.

One time, shopping with my daughter, who was 14 at the time, we spied a dress she just had to have hanging on a mannequin in Macy’s. The correct size was not hanging on the rack–it was on the mannequin.

I saw no issue with removing the dress from the mannequin. In my mind, a store would want to make a sale, as the dress served not simply as decor but as a piece of merchandise.

However … We were alone in the department with no one to help us. Having never dressed or undressed a mannequin, I experienced a bit of difficulty removing the dress. I believe half of the mannequin detached and fell to the floor with a resounding bang, which resulted in a horrified saleslady half-jogging toward us, in her short-heeled pumps, literally clutching her pearls.

“What are you doing?!” she demanded, to the absolute horror and humiliation of my precious child, for whom I was laying down my dignity and wrestling a plastic human form.

I flashed my trademark smile, which has cost me the price of a small island over the years, between the braces, whitening, and so many root canals and crowns that I have lost count.

It did not win her over. I meekly asked if she could help us retrieve the item from the downed mannequin to try on, as it was the only one in the proper size available.

“You’re not supposed to do that!” she chastised, but she relented and relished the eventual sale.

Maybe “relished” is a bit of hyperbole. I imagine she was simply delighted to have me out of her hair.

At least I gave her a great story to tell in the break room.

Another just darling aspect of aging is this dumb peri-menopause. I never heard the phrase until about five years ago. I think everyone knows what menopause is, but I never really knew the years leading up to menopause would be … just … so amazing.

If by “amazing,” I mean unpleasant and unwelcome.

Having not hit menopause yet, I still get to have monthly cycles. Just, they’re so much more painful. Oh, and much shorter time in between. Cool. Way cool.

My emotions are on the roller coaster from the Bad Place. And I don’t know why. If I’m crying, don’t ask. If I’m angry, I just send a text to the family chat warning everyone to leave me alone, and I don’t know why. Don’t ask what can make it better because I don’t know.

But please do reach over and pluck a few curly gray chin hairs whenever you get the hankering. I need all the help I can get in that area. It’s like they just pop up for lunch.

“Didn’t I just pluck y’all? Whatchu doing back so soon?” I think on average twice daily. How’s the hair on my head going so thin but the hair on my chin thinks it’s a party all day everyday?!

Night sweats? Lovely. I bought another set of sheets so I don’t have to wash as often. Pro tip: gray does not hide sweat stains any better than white.

Hot flashes? Cool, cool, cool. But actually not at all.

Oh, let’s not forget working out. Those jumping jacks and bunny hops from younger (tighter) years? I can still do them, but I can’t do them dry! I need old-lady moves that perhaps start and end the session with Kegel concentration. Also I’ve noticed, much to my dismay, that my go-to methods for trimming up no longer work. Apparently women of a certain age are supposed to eat more protein than I care to fit in my diet.

At age 46, I’m on the cusp of deciding to become an old, fluffy lady who speaks her mind regardless of societal expectations and wears elastic-waisted pants and flowy kimonos.

Especially if I see them on a mannequin first.

Dorothy Wilson lives in Marion, Arkansas, with her husband Chris as they enjoy all of the adventures life with their seven children provides (where everything is a group project). Contact her at iam4life@msn.com.

I still fall back into my old ways of avoidance and apathy when it comes to myself. Oh, my steak is well-done when I ordered it rare? That’s fine, it’s fine, I’ll just gnaw on it until dessert. Oh no, I won’t be needing a box. But if one of my children ends up with the short end of the stick, Karen comes out to play.

Dorothy Wilson

The Marion Mom