Wednesday, August 3, 2016

~ Numbers Game (A Game That Can Get Your Ass Kicked)

Look.  I think I look fine for my age.  Aging is not something I concern myself with.  My eyes pop open in the morning I'm surprised and pleased.  Surprised because the ol' adage of tomorrow never bein' guaranteed is one that's always held, to use and old advertising term, top of mind awareness.  So, yeah, everyday I start from a winning position. Me: 23,721, Grim Reaper: Fuckin' O BOOM.  And pleased 'cause no matter the mundanity o' the day, sumthin' weird is gonna happen.  #Adventure  #Blessed

I have greys.  I do not care.  I mean, enough to do anything about 'em.  Comb them.  That's what I'm willing to do in their upkeep.  I can't even fathom driving someplace special, waiting for someone, sitting still (having to have forced conversations, if I'm being accurate, having to resist the urge to tell some random asshole to fuck off, etc.) having someone painting my hair for, what?  An hour?  4?  I donno.  To what?  ...Make some people who I don't know, or give but the most minimal amount of shit what they think about me at all (let alone my locks), think I'm younger?  Nope. 

There are, what every face cleanser or lotion-potion commercial tells me are 'fine lines'.  (In my head I call them fiiiiiiiiiinnnnne lines.)  Again, when I notice 'em they feel like, suck-it-I'm-still-alive-lines.  (shrugs)  So I don't really get how they are things to be ashamed of, or uncomfortable with. 

I am, however, a stone cold freak.  I get that.  And I made my peace with that long ago.  (No judgement, or shade.  Do you.  (Aggressively and with zeal.)  I swear, I don't begrudge or belittle the bottle beauties I know.  It's just not for me.  If you have to invest four hours, how many times per year?  Let's say 5.   Multiplied by? 15 years?  That's 300 hours.  I have 300 hours to give to hangin' with friends, or family.  Or snugglin' in bed.  Or giggling.  Or being kind.  Or making and executing a plan for world domination.  The hue of my hair?  Nah. 

I feel like I'm not particularly touchy about getting older.  Again, the only way to avoid it is to die.  So, ya know.  Those are the options?  Cool, then guess who's never gonna be bitchin' about another day above terra firma 'cause of a wrinkle or a sag.  Pluh-eze. 

In a way I've always kinda felt super non-touchy about age.  Exhibit A:  I lie about my age.  For about two decades I've been telling people I'm (depending on the day) 5-7 years older than I actually am.  My great-grandmother lied her ass off about her age.  (She made herself younger.)  So much so that it was a family joke.  Like, no one really knew how old she was when she died because she'd told so many different versions to so many various people and places.  ...I figure if I look decent for my age, I look specfuckin'tacular for bein' the nearly decade older that ya think I am.   (...And now you know the exact effort I'm willing to do in the name of age vanity.  Ageanity?  I'm willing to do a minor amount of math and commit a venial sin.  That's it.)  I'm just sayin', people uneasy with age and aging aren't uppin' the ante.  Generally.

To tell ya the truth?  Everything (aka: the BBGSOP [my standard operating procedure]) was workin' fine.  I'm getting more advanced in my aliveness, but I've not felt like the world was really taking notice.

Or that I'd made some Official shark jump over to the old side.  (Sure, I've been ma'am'd, but never Ma'am'd.)

...Everything was workin' fine.

Yep.  Right up until the other day.

I'm at some doctors appointment.  Somehow Labor Day plans were being discussed.  I mentioned I had an Our Lady of Bad Catholic Kidz H.S. reunion.  With a reeeeeeal quickness she chirped, "your 54th?' 

It's not my 54th.  She didn't say 54th.  ...But she did say the exact year reunion I'm going to.  And I was immediately, and completely PISSED OFF.  Frankly, I'd never considered if a long ass Q-tip could be used to shank a chick.  But here we were.

Later I consoled myself by telling me that she said this specific number because she has my medical records, which I presume in addition to a whole buncha medical gobbily gook also includes my age.  Or perhaps it's near her 54th reunion and she assumes we're in the same age range.  But the possibility that on sight I look like I should be having my 54th?  Well.  Now we're going to have to fight.  So I guess it's a good thing there's another doctor around the corner.


Dear Medical Professionals,
Watch your words whilst wearin' that stethoscope 'round yer neck.  It will make a good garrote if I want it to.
~ BBG 



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