I’ll never forget my grandmother’s friend telling me years
ago, “It’s the darndest thing. I still feel twenty-five-years-old inside, and
then I look in the mirror and remember I’m old.”
I decided to be Catwoman this Halloween. Michelle Pfeiffer’s
Catwoman. I ordered a rubber mask online. It even had pretend white stitches
all over it. When I tried it on, I felt like I was being suffocated. This baby
was so tight that not only was it cutting off all the circulation in my face,
it was literally pushing up my cheek fat and accentuating any and all wrinkles
around my eyes. These were no sexy, sultry cat’s eyes; these were wrinkly sixtyish-looking
Purrfect, I thought. I’ve become Catgrandma. Instead of a
vinyl jumpsuit with stiletto heels, I’ll wear a black velour track suit with
orthopedic shoes. I’ll keep a supply of tissues up my sleeve, and add a smudge
of red lipstick on my two front teeth. Maybe I’ll even have a piece of toilet
paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe to complete the look.
Really, it was a rude awakening. I realized all the other
ways I had gotten old.
If I bend a certain way, my once- beautiful rose tattoo now
looks like a flabby, sagging, cellulite-ridden red ass.
The fact that I am still wearing a belly ring makes me a
member of the embarrassing belly-ring club, filled with twelve-year-olds,
strippers, and forty-something cougars who make sex tapes with their cubs.
My PMS lasts the entire month. There is no reprieve. I imagine this is
a premonition of what’s to come when I hit the big M, and it isn’t going to be
pretty. A friend told me recently, “Wow, your ex was right. You can be a
bitch.” I said, “Honey, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
When my son calls out, “Mom,” people look to my twenty-four-year-old
sister standing next to me.
My fantasies are no longer about some sexy policeman
frisking me or a hot neighbor needing to borrow a cup of sugar. Now they
involve Dr. Oz performing an exam, or Tyler Florence, the chef from the Food
Network coming to my house to cook for me.
I don’t have plugs in my earlobes, but if I had gotten them
at a younger age, I’m betting the gaping holes in my lobes would be starting to
resemble another hole in my body if I had given birth to four kids the natural
And yet, I still call my son and his friends, “Dude;” I play
Wii Sports, not Wii Fit; I wear a
2-piece without a muumuu over it; I’ll admit I drink straight out of the juice
I don’t act my age. I still feel like I’m in my twenties, just like the friend of my
grandmother. Until I start embarrassing my son to the point where he doesn’t
want to be seen in public with me, I imagine I’ll always act younger than my
age. Right now though, he thinks I’m the coolest mom on the planet. I’ll roll
with that, because I know the day will come when he will tell his friends, “No,
that freaky lady’s not my mom. She’s just the babysitter.”