I had lunch with a dynamo of a woman recently. She’s 89 years old. Sharp, witty, and fantabulous. Everything I want to be at her age. Any age, really.
As we were leaving the restaurant she said to me, “Kristine, you are obviously in your late forties. I want to tell you, you look great. There’s not a wrinkle on you!”
Well.
I am not in my late forties. And I knew the polite thing to do was to accept the compliment with grace and thank the woman. But I couldn’t do it.
“Actually, I’m forty-two. But I appreciate the compliment very much.”
“Forty-two,” she said. “Well, you’re a young one then!”
Holy shit! Wait a second! That means that an eighty-nine year old woman’s gut instinct was to categorize me as NOT YOUNG?
I felt sick. A burst of heat emanated from the center of my body. There’s no doubt. It was my very first hot flash.
Ouch. I’m sure she thought she was giving you an amazing compliment. But still – ouch. As someone who will soon be 48, everyone likes to round up to 50. You know, to keep the math simple. It really does get under my middle-aged skin!!
Penny, you know what I did? I took my fine lines and wrinkles home, poured myself a glass of wine, put on my favorite sweater, settled into my rocking chair, and channel-surfed for a good murder mystery.
That’s a perfect solution for everything!
Right? Wine.
That bites! I am not sure if a cliche like “the only age that matters is the age of your soul” would help you so maybe I will just dedicate this glass of wine for you *cheers*.
I can hear the clink of our glasses all the way over here in the middle of the ocean, Alexandra! Nice sharing a drink with you!
Maybe she could tell you really had your shit together and assumed you must have more wisdom and experience than seen on your face. If not, she’s probably got cataracts.
Oh gosh… I don’t know! I’m going to go with the former… *smile*
Wow, this paragraph is fastidious, my sister is analyzing such things, therefore I am going to let know her.
Hey! Are you from Fivver? Lame!
Darling if and when you want the name of my dermatologist just let my know. My mouth is zipped.
I love you, Jytte!
Here’s the thing.
Old people and vision? Discerning shape an texture.
Not so much.
Really, you were little more than a fuzzy blob gooped in Vaseline, barely visible through the cateracts.
If she had called you a man, well, then we’d have a reason to be upset.
That’s what I keep telling myself. To no avail.
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