Growing Old(er) not so Gracefully

I’ve done a lot of embarrassing things in my life.

There was that time I peed my pants in the classroom in Grade 1 – all because I was too shy to ask the teacher, Mrs. Bracken, if I could go to the bathroom. Imagine how much harder it was to explain why the classroom floor and half of my classmates’ shoes were puddled in 6 year-old kidney-processed bladder-busting apple juice!

Then there was my "big night out" in ’96 when, somewhat inebriated, I decided to lean back and balance backwards from a bar stool. "Hey, look at me!" I announced.

But no one looked, so I did it again.

Oh, they looked that time alright - perhaps not immediately, but definitely as soon as I flipped over the bar stool, causing a commotion. In so doing, I performed a dandy face plant that resulted in a smashingly brilliant carpet burn on my forehead. Yup, folks looked long enough to summon the attention of the bar staff, who promptly arrived at my side to help me up and escort me to the exit.

Since then, it seems I embarrass my children on a regular basis with my mere existence, typically with anything as mundane as speaking to their friends or trying to use colloquialisms. “What the haps, chaps?” is apparently not a cool way to greet my sons’ friends as they enter our home. Neither is stating (at any time no matter who is around) any of the following: “Wassup?”, “What have you been up to?”, or even “Anything new and exciting?” Similarly, hugs are embarrassing, questions are annoying, and demonstrating any form of care, concern or curiosity is absolutely absurd.

Foolish me.

Fortunately, I can keep myself (and others) entertained with my own antics.

Or even with my lack of antics.

A bit of back-story: About three years ago, I made the conscious decision to stop colouring my hair. I can be a pretty low-maintenance (read: LAZY) person at the best of times and I certainly wasn’t trying to make a statement about embracing my age or any such thing. I just had this notion that covering the grey in my tresses seemed to make the crows feet around my eyes stand out more. So between that, being in my mid-forties, and not wanting to spend time, money or energy on my locks as they grew out, I opted to opt-out of the dye-jobs.

Funny thing about my grey hair though… as it has grown out, it has developed a different consistency than (what’s left of) my originally brown-hued hair. It’s pube-like and devil-may-care coarseness lends itself to greater prominence – that and the fact that all of my greys tend to favour the front of my face, embracing and framing (taking over) the forehead and temple areas of my otherwise sunny disposition.

Now, with COVID, you see my hair and my crows feet long before you see my face or hear my voice. In fact, many times, my hair tends to do the talking for me.

So, as a consequence of the choice I made, I’ve been called "Nannie" or "Grandma" by some of the little whipper-snapper punk-ass degenerate teenagers who smoke outside the high school as I run by. I’ve had my age overestimated by simple and ignorant folks at work or upon chance meeting ("Jeez Shell, you must be getting ready to retire soon, eh?"). And I’ve been asked "Why do you look so old?" by sweet little innocent stupid children who simply don’t know any better.

I try to take it all in stride and not take it personally… much. Life is short and we ought to spend more time laughing at the little things rather than sweating over them, right?

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, I dropped by the local grocery store to pick up a few things. To my delight, I noticed that corn dogs were on sale, so I gathered up a couple of boxes to take home and tuck away in the freezer.

I had under 20 items in total, so I got in line for the express lane.

I was served by a lovely young lady, whom I’ll call "Siobhan" [not her real name]. Anyway, as darling Siobhan was ringing in my order, she commented "Oh, corn dogs. I love these!"

I chimed in with "Yes, I thought I’d pick some up for the kids because they love them too."

She paused…

"Kids…” she said. “You mean ‘grandkids’?"

I try not to swear in public – often – and I feel like I was successful on this day as well. But I know I saw red as I firmly replied "No." With a deep huffy breath, I went on to explain, "I mean ‘kids’. Sure, they’re all practically in their 20s, but they’re still kids to me."

"Oh, I hear ya," she offered, "I thought maybe you were babysitting or whatever".

I figure Siobhan is about 17 years old. I was tempted to say "Hey, I don’t know if you’re planning on having kids of your own someday, but you should consider wearing a bikini every where you go between now and then. Because… you probably won’t want to AFTERWARDS". And then I silently wished her a nasty yeast infection, hemorrhoids, and stretch marks.

Please note: I didn’t actually say any of that. Not out loud. Because I’m not THAT KIND of asshole. Just thinking it made me laugh to myself.

I paid for my order, packed my groceries, and left the store.

As I sat in the driver seat and started my car, I did what any self-respecting, grey-haired 47-year old woman would do.

I called my Mom.

"Hey… just quickly while I still think its funny… and it IS, ha ha. Listen, here’s what just happened." I then proceeded to tell her about my little interaction with Siobhan.

"Oh, well she’s just stupid, Shelley. Don’t worry about it. It’s probably because you had your mask on. Yes. Yes, that’s it. You had your mask on and she couldn’t see your face and she’s stupid. That’s probably exactly what it is."

Thank goodness for Moms – they always try to see the bright side.

"I appreciate that, Mom,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure the mask only highlighted my age."

"Well what can I say? I think it’s just the mask. Anyway, your father and I are going for a walk, so we’ll talk later…. ‘Grandma’".

I guess my Mom can be an asshole when she wants to be, too. Must be where I get it from…

Anyway, my point in all of this… and I promise: I’m getting to it:

I’m not embarrassed by the exchange. I actually do think it’s rather funny. And I would much rather laugh than cry. No one laughs harder at me than me.

But…

I am embarrassed that it hurt my feelings.

I am embarrassed that I’m vain.

I am embarrassed that I’m at an age where, in “living my truth”, this kind of thing is bound to happen more regularly.

I don’t regret the decision to go grey. In the big picture, I honestly don’t care – at least, not a lot.

Every day on this side of the grass is a gift and I really, truly, honestly believe that – regardless of the colour of my hair or the marks on my face or the lack of muscle tone in my skin or this lovely spare tire I’m developing. I could go on and on!

So maybe I’m not growing old gracefully, but I’m not exactly “fighting it every step of the way” either.

Unless and until it’s warranted. ;)

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~S, xo