Apparently, old chicks get crabby about stuff
After glancing down the other day, it occurred to me the life I’d known to that point, had ceased to exist.
There they were. Live, in Technicolor and unmistakable — my grandma’s ankles.
I’m not sure why, but I remember what they looked like. Strange.
I just recall looking at my tiny Grandma one day (I bet she never weighed more than a buck and change), seeing her bony, vein-riddled ankles and thinking, “Aw, poor little old Grammi! Those must hurt!”
Turns out, she may not have been as old as I thought she was back then … and by the by, yes, yes they do. Often.
As if that wasn’t enough, I woke up two days later with a flare up of “the arth-er-it-is” as Fred G. Sanford always called it. #FiftyAndFallingApart
At a certain point in a woman’s life, she looks in the mirror and says to herself: “Um, have we met, ma’am?” ‘Cause we don’t really recognize that fossil staring back at us, yo.
Sure, I’d seen the rumpled, puckered thighs on a fellow runner in the park some time ago. I was devastated for her — while secretly, smugly thinking, “Thank HEAVENS, I don’t have those!”
Fast forward (and I mean, 12 times hyperspeed) a few years and sure enough, my thigh skin has fallen so hard, it is now crowding my ankles like an old lady’s pantyhose.
Methinks Jane Seymour’s about to gain a follower in her “Crepe Erase” cult.
Yes, indeed, once you’re forced to slide cheaters OVERTOP of your bi-focals to read a recipe, it’s clear: “Girl, you ain’t a girl no mo’.”
And it bugs an old girl. OK, this one. Apparently, we old chicks are crabby.
This brings me to some intolerances I’ve developed alongside my drooping eyelids, saggy side arms and elephant elbows. And here they are, in no particular order:
l “Do Not Reply” in the subject line. This is patently rude and guarantees that I WILL respond to you. I will waste two days tracking you down then BOMBARD you with replies, pal. That’s how old women roll.
l CC’ing my boss. If you have something to say to me, I’m right here, capisce? I’m sorry, that’s Italian for “Get a spine.”
l “K.” Look, I may be old, but not so old I don’t understand that a single letter response is shadier than 10 orchards full of sugar maples in early fall, ‘K?
l Wild, wild west driving in the parking lot. Are you familiar with this behavior? Suddenly, it’s England because everyone’s on the wrong side — and pretending there are no marked lanes or parking spaces or stop signs. And for Pete’s sake, get outta the emergency lane or I will challenge you to a buggy duel to the death, hombre!
l Memento shaming. The answer to your question is YES, I DO need to keep my nearly 20-year-old’s second-grade report card. Hello? Do you not see what the English teacher wrote? “He’s incredibly bright; very advanced for his age.” Like, what do you think I’m going to show the Nobel Prize people when they announce his win for Literature in 2032? Duh.
Yeah, OK, maybe I should look into some of that ginkgo biloba stuff when I’m ordering my triple-firming neck cream for my wattle. I might as well be a HAPPY Thanksgiving turkey.
Kimerer is a Tribune / Vindicator columnist who is FINE with being old so get off her back already. Check out her geriatric gist www.patricia kimerer.com