note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.
So here we are.
The countdown has begun. In 30 days I will be 40.
I don’t know why I care. I’ve never cared about my age before. I’ve never lied about how old I am. I’ve never uttered, well, when I was born back in nineteen-seventy-mmmmmmwhmmm... And I have no intention of referring to myself as 39 plus one, ha ha. Sure, I’ve been covering my grays and buying a crapload of serums, creams and retinols for a while now, but come on. That’s not being afraid of a number. That’s just vanity.
But I’ve observed what that lethal mix of vanity and age can do. I’ve spent time on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I’ve seen things that cannot be unseen, cousin. Lips that go from ear to ear. Constantly surprised brows. Eyes that never quite close.
Not that I fear I will ever walk down the path of needles and knives. One needs copious amounts of money and pride for that. (And for some reason, one also needs to look good in taupe.)
However, shunning the plastic path leaves the other path... the path that I seem to already be heading down, even before the big four-oh... and that is the path paved with old lady catalogs.
Yes, they’ve been coming in the mail more and more frequently, waiting breathlessly for me to give up and give in to a world of housecoats, support hose, and horrible, horrible shoes. Looking at them reminds me of looking at the contents of my grandmother’s medicine chest, right down to the pink foam rollers and the Alberto V05. The pages from these sensible purveyors taunt me, whispering in the night: comfort and valuuuuuuuue... comfort and valuuuuuue...
And sure, maybe I could really use that vein cream. Maybe those dress shields could cut down on my dry cleaning bills. Maybe that muumuu will look ironically charming, quirky, and Zooey Deschanel-esque.
But the truth is, the only way for a muumuu to look ironically charming, quirky, and Zooey Deschanel-esque is to actually be worn by Zooey Deschanel. Once you’re out of your 20s and 30s, the granny look just looks like you’re an actual granny.
I won’t take this opportunity to say anything about the actual grannies who dress like Zooey Deschanel. (Suffice it to say that I’ve spent time on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, too...)
Oh well. Maybe once I’m 40 I’ll finally have a good excuse to place an order and see if that Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific shampoo lives up to its name, if that floral swim bonnet really is a stylish way to preserve my hairdo, or if that dickey actually fools people.
And that’s 2841 words.
Yes indeed. Welcome to me.