Monday, August 3, 2009
You're so vain. You probably think this blog is about you...
I am desperately clinging to my youth. Unfortunately, my youth has no intention of hanging around. It has officially left the building, folks. Don’t get me wrong. I am more than happy when each new year rolls around, and I am still on this side of the dirt. It’s just that I hate looking into the mirror and knowing that “hot” is not happening for me any more unless it is followed by the word “flash”. There is no hiding it any more. I’m looking more and more like a middle-aged mama.
I had my feelings hurt last week by a cashier who obviously was given a job under false pretenses. This lad could not have been more than eleven years old. I’m sure his tender age is what clouded his judgment when scanning my wine purchase. He asked for my identification. (So far, so good, right?) I smiled, and started digging for my license. “Hmmm, I must be looking pretty darn good today”, I thought as I handed him the card. He said, “Just flip it over for me so I can scan the bar code. I don’t need to see the front”. WHAT? You seriously don’t want to compare my teenage-looking face with the picture on the front? You don’t really believe I’m over twenty-one, do you? (Okay, so I’ve been over twenty-one for close to twenty years now.) No, he didn’t need to confirm it by looking at my date of birth. The deep lines on my face scream it out like a neon sign. Insert wistful sigh here.
I had another run-in with one of our misguided youth recently. This time the assault occurred at the mall. As I was clothes shopping for our up-coming beach trip, I entered one of those stores where the workers all wear headsets and like to pretend as if they are on an extremely important mission – you know – like to the front of the store because a shirt has become unfolded. Any way, one of the impossibly thin, obviously empty-headed clerks strolled up to me and asked if I was buying a gift for someone ELSE. I guess it was evident to her that I had surpassed the age limit for wearing fitted tee shirts and skinny jeans. Did I scream at the top of my lungs that she was a punk kid, and that Katy Perry has nothing on Joan Jett? Did I tell her that she was the loser for not even knowing who Bananarama is? No, I just bit my lip and shuffled out the door. I bet they would appreciate my patronage in Sears. Humph.
I am, without a doubt, the vainest person I know. I don’t go to the mailbox without full make-up. I style my hair before going to have my hair styled. I touch up my face before mowing the lawn. (But doesn’t everyone?) So, it’s no wonder I’m struggling against the hands of Father Time, that sorry S.O.B. that he is. It’s his fault the waitress calls me “ma’am”. It’s his fault college guys think I’m about as sexy as their own mom. It’s his fault that I spend more money on skin care than I do on clothes.
Contrary to popular belief though, I don’t go through all this trouble to attract men. I’m willing to admit it now. Men are easy to please or fool whichever way you want to look at it. No, it has always just been about looking better than other females. I want to have the cuter hair, the nicer butt, and smoother skin than anyone standing near me. This is becoming increasingly difficult as I am now approaching forty-one. Many of the people I find myself surrounded by are a good ten years younger than me. It’s hard to compete with butts as young as that no matter how many miles I run.
I have become a slave to eye cream and Photoshop. I have no plans to grow old gracefully. I will wear hip huggers, big earrings and bikinis. I will hide my reading glasses and not let on that I have never seen one episode of “The Hills”. Hey, forty is the new twenty, right?