“I was raised by Old People; I like my creature comforts.”
Son #2 says this at dinner, in the suave radio-personality voice he adopts when he’s in entertainment mode, out to amuse others with polished practiced tidbits.
Son #2 notices that he is currently out to amuse the Old People who raised him. To his credit, he blushes.
I do not blush. Only young women do that – Maidens and Mothers. The self-help book I’m reading (yes, yet another one) advises me to let those former selves go and embrace the fact that I am now a Crone.
Not “wise woman” or “mature goddess” or “respected matron” or “fascinating older female.” And certainly not “eternally sexy, like Helen Mirren.”
Crone.
I’m not thinking I can embrace this negative term of prejudice as a point of pride. I’m not that strong or principled. The child I bore at age 35 no doubt thinks I was a crone even then.
We are talking about the Coloradan compulsion to sit outside at restaurants – in February, shivering in frost, and in July, sweltering in full sun – preferably with a large dog tethered to the table and an expensive bicycle parked out front.
Me? I don’t like breathing exhaust and trying to talk above traffic noise on a tiny crowded square of sidewalk. I don’t like squinting at lunch through blinding sun that will leave me burnt beet red. Seat me inside, please! I’m an old person. I like my creature comforts. Son #2 gets this from me.
I blink at him, trying to remember why parenthood once seemed like a good idea. As I recall, a ticking biological clock, a nice Bordeaux, and a red merry widow had something to do with it.
That clock kept ticking. I blink again, realizing that I will turn 60 in exactly 6 months. I will be a Crone.
So! I have six months to correct all the physical, emotional and spiritual failings of the past 59 1/2 years. That’s 182 days of dieting and exercise and mental exertion, all well beyond my level of ability (and perhaps interest).
Sounds like 182 days of Mirth to me.
At least now you can withdraw from retirement accounts without penalty.
And don’t forget Senior Discount Day at the ARC thrift store!
Oh, Missy baby, you’re a crone! It’s proudly living the wisdom that comes with age and experience. No age limits.
Right you are, Walta! May I be up to the challenge :-)
Good to see you back! I hope you’re feeling better. I might kindly suggest that there is no demographic anywhere that gives fewer fucks and has more social influence than vivacious women 55 and older.
I’d suggest getting weird with it — do the things you were always too worried about what other people would think to do. And wield your Wise Woman power for the good of society. We’re counting on you just as much as we hope for deliverance from millennials like your sons. Y’all good people, so get ready for a challenge!
When the going gets rough, the rough turn pro, yes? You’re right. It’s time to rock the crone thing. This new “let the young people fix it” attitude troubles me. They are certainly capable, but it’s such a cop-out on our part, and so unfair. First, we laid our messes at the feet of the millennials, even as we mocked them for their avocado toast. Now, we expect high school students to step in and fix society. And we’re somehow OK with that, since it absolves us of responsibility. Ha! I think I’ve found a new mode of expression! It’s the Crone Voice, rather than the Mom Voice.
I am not a crone. I am a wise woman. Maybe an elder. I am not a crone. But I do find myself saying or doing what I want without caring what others think. I am a liberated woman. (Also, those senior discounts? Some places start them at 55. You’ve been missing out!)