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Some Kind of Joke

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“Well, we all get older, don’t we?” Cousin C.W. blurted out in his twangy, cowboy drawl as he saw me for the first time in many years.

If I were more of a think-on-your-toes kind of person, I’d have stared him down and barked back, “Indeed we do!” (Oh for the things we could have, should have, might have said!) But he’d nailed it.

Yes. I’m smack-dab in the throws of middle-age, and frankly, I must tell you that getting older just plain and straightforward (and for lack of a better word) sucks.

First, there’s the issue of the hair – the mane, the crowning glory. Previously, I looked at many older women thinking, “Why in the world can’t they do something with that hair?” Now I know. They’re doing the best they can.

Is this aging hair business some kind of private joke closely guarded by the AARP? Could it be there’s an X-file-type conspiracy to keep us from knowing the real and horrible truth? Okay, okay. I know I’m getting carried away, but could you at least tell me why there’s no mother-daughter talk about “how not to be afraid when it happens.” The words my mother should have shared: “Honey, around your 45th birthday, your beautiful brunette curls will turn white, and you’ll become obsessed with not exposing your true ‘self.’ You’ll spend half of your time and most of your money at the beauty salon, but hey! Don’t worry – it happens to all of us.”

I now wonder if more “mature” ladies snicker and give each other that knowing glance the first time they hear a new middle-ager complaining about hair issues. “She never thought it would happen to her,” I imagine them chuckling, “Tee-hee-hee.”

Remember the old prediction that you’ll start looking more and more like your mate the longer you’re together? Terrific. Nowadays, my husband and I are sporting the same style – thin and balding. For heaven’s sake! Where is my hair?

You know, I always had the notion that senior women were perhaps tired of the daily grooming grind. This, I thought, might explain why they wore those oh-so-obvious wigs. Until recently, it never occurred to me that there might actually be no hair underneath their artificial tresses. Not a pretty picture indeed.

And the frizz. That’s just plain not funny. Why was there no word of warning that my silky, strong locks would eventually turn into pillow stuffing? What’s up with that? I may just change my name someday. After all, if I have any hair left it will be frizzed and fuzzy and pink. How does “Mrs. Cotton Candy” sound to you?

Honestly, I haven’t been exactly truthful about not knowing where my hair is going. We used to laugh hysterically when my youngest son would come home and talk about his teacher and her goatee. Um-hmm. That’s right. Rather than remaining in its proper location, the hair on my head has taken to diving underground, resurfacing in bristles on my face. Quite attractive. Why is it I thought things like this would never happen to me? All those commercials about Nair and Epi-somethings – designed for those poor, unfortunates out there somewhere, but definitely not for me. Alas, I’ve joined the ranks of other hair-challenged mid-lifers who are frantically scratching down those 1-800 infomercial numbers. “Hello? Yes. Send me the ‘Wonderful Whisker Wizard.’ Can I pay the express shipping to get it like NOW!?”

What’s more, about the time the fur found its way onto my face, my eyesight went to hell in a hand basket. I now require the magnification of an observatory telescope just to be able to see what my hands can feel and what I perceive everyone has been staring at for the last three days. How many children and their parents are now laughing hysterically over my Fu Manchu?

And at last, I recognize why little old ladies can never get their lipstick on straight. They’re doing “make-up-by-memory” – just hoping they can remember where their lips are because they certainly can’t see them anymore.

Hair, eyesight – and what about those shoes? Lord have mercy! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve demanded of my friends, “The day I put on a pair of SAS is the day you must check me into the funeral home . . . I’m done.” You see, in my youthful mind, I believe I regarded aging as weakness. Why, if I ate well, exercised regularly, and took my vitamins, I’d be running marathons at seventy. Uh-huh. Lately, it’s become abundantly clear. These bodies flat wear out. So what of those cute little high-heeled numbers? I don’t know exactly when I fell off the high fashion wagon. What I do remember is the pain and the pronouncement, “Tha-a-a-t’s it! I’m never wearing heels again.” Thus, the great compromise - going for the stylish, but rubber-bottomed flats thinking, “I can wear these ‘til I die.” Wrong again, Bucko! Presently, it’s getting to the point where those dog-ugly orthopedic shoes (aka SAS) may become my only option for pain-free walking. Great.

It’s just not fair, all these surprises and secrecies surrounding aging. Possibly there should be a seminar out there somewhere to prepare people like me for all this “good news.” I can just see the crowds, pushing and shoving, breaking the doors down to get in. Or maybe this “modern maturity” wouldn’t come as such a shock if there were a pamphlet in the doctor’s office to pick up and peruse from time to time: “The Real and Crappy Truth about Getting Older.” Perhaps I’ll write a book on the subject - The Horrors of Aging. Best-seller list, here I come!

Before I start writing, let me turn off this Depends commercial. Whew! Sure glad I’ll never need those.