Remember that virtual dinner party from way back when? (No? Well check the link if you want to know what I’m talking about.) I’m slowly making my way through the list and I have another “virtual guest” visiting The Big Piece of Cake this week.
Anna from An Inch of Gray is my very first blog crush. I happened upon her site months before I started my own blog, and immediately fell in love with her humor and candor. The first post I read was an absolutely beautiful tribute to her mother. I became her first stalker.
Luckily – I didn’t scare Anna away with my enthusiastic commenting, and we’ve actually gotten to know each other in “real life” (as it turns out, we live in the same area).
Thank you Anna for inspiring me to start my own blog and not getting a restraining order once you found out that I live within 10 miles of your house.
Are You My Mother?
Growing up, I was always told I acted older than I was and I liked it. I hovered on the fringe of adult conversation, hung out with grown ups, and, as I reached my teen years, dressed “older.” My best friend and I would wear pencil skirts, high heels, blouses and pearls to high school to project an air of sophistication.
When I lamented the fact that I didn’t look like quite grown-up enough, my mom told me to be careful what I wished for. She said that girls who matured later often still had cute, girlish figures in their 40’s, while those who matured early often flamed out. I didn’t know anyone still used the phrase “girlish figures” anymore, but I did listen. My mother was a buxom homecoming queen and I guess she’d seen her share of pubescent pixies blossom later in life.
The high heels and wool suits followed me to college, however, and when I started teaching high school to kids who were in some cases less than 5 years younger than I was, I was happy to look as mature as possible.
Now I wish I could turn back the clock. My husband, Tom, looks the same as he did in high school. No signs that his thick black hair is going anywhere, or going gray for that matter, while I’ve been covering my roots since age 18.
Getting a little thick around the middle? Not Tom. And his Italian heritage shows nary a sign of wrinkles on his face. And seeing his dad still romping around in short shorts at age 70 with his trim young body (did I just write that??) is like looking into a crystal ball. Tom is not aging. See that wedding picture up there? He hasn’t changed. One. Bit.
And me? Decades of sun-worshipping, and not a few instances of zit-picking have started to reveal my true age. Aversion to exercise and fondness of Girl Scout cookies haven’t helped either. Please don’t think I’m fishing for compliments here. It’s not that I think I look OLD, but I do look my age. My other half just isn’t keeping up his end of the bargain.
I’m just going to hate being one of those couples. I think of friends of friends I met recently. The husband looked so young I thought the wife was his MOTHER. Yikes. We’re not there yet, but the future looms large. Hello? George H.W. and Barbara Bush?
Sure, the former prez was tottering a bit at the recent inauguration ceremonies, but that’s probably because he hurt his leg jumping out of an airplane or something. His face remains tanned and unlined whereas hers has been, ahem, grandmotherly, since the early 70’s. The 1970’s, not her 70’s.
If Tom gets a sports car in his 50’s it won’t even look like a mid-life crisis, but I’m screwed no matter what I do. If as I age I try too hard to look young next to him, I’ll end up a desperate, grasping cougar. But not trying at all seems like just pulling on my comfy pants, crawling under the covers, and throwing in the towel.
Not that that sounds so bad. Could someone pass the Thin Mints?