Please don’t call me “young lady.” That is code for “old.” Please don’t “ma’am” me. Just state your business without the honorific. And to the man on the street who offered me a note of cheer the other day -- “Buck up, Grandma” -- shame on you! You know better! Even if you think it, please don’t speak it. Let me ease into this!
I am only 63. I’ve got all my marbles, the energy of a 30-year (+/-) old, and, yes, some gray hair. I am not old. And even if I am, that is not your call! I will figure it out for myself and, when that time comes, perhaps I will look upon your ‘ma’ams,’ your ‘young ladies,’ and even possibly your ‘Grandmas’ as a compliment. Just not right now.
Forgive me, but it was only recently that I figured out that I am not even a Baby Boomer as I was born in 1945, on the cusp of that much probed and prodded generation. It is just this year that my almost-peers are catching up to me in age. That leaves me somewhere adrift on the vast tundra between the Greatest Generation (my parents) and the Baby Boomers (1946-1964) with whom I have identified since my freshman year at Berkeley. I am declaring right here, right now: I am a Boomer. You can’t take that away from me!
It’s a funny thing, growing old in this culture. You are suddenly at the mercy of hairdressers who assume you want to be dyed, teased, and sprayed beyond an inch of your scalp in a desperate effort to hide your age. The result is all too often a Crayola-ed, lacquered, helmeted head that betrays not only your age but your vanity. You do not look young; you merely look confused. And of course this transformation all takes place in a chair situated in front of a full-length mirror, next to a chair which boasts a young golden girl whose vanity and chin are intact.
I say no thank you to the “woman of a certain age” look. That went out with Mr. Ralph, my mother’s hairdresser, who specialized in “frosting” her hair to make it blonder, except that it ended up looking like a weasel pelt. My wise friend, Cele, has the brilliant idea of creating a national bad hairdresser registry for women of a certain age who wish to hold on to their dignity!
At 60, you become an object of concern for kindly grocery clerks who inquire sympathetically, “Help you out with those bags, ma’am?” (A double whammy!) I may be hyper sensitive, but I got myself into the store unaided. I loaded those groceries in my cart single-handedly. By golly, I will help myself out.
And it’s not just the hair and the dry goods situations. It’s realizing that your time is passing and things are changing. I grew up in an age where bra straps and boxer shorts were invisible undergarments, not fashion statements. A time when the response to “Thank you” was “You’re welcome,” not “No problem!” We stood when our teachers entered the classroom and shook their hands at the end of the class. We were inducted into young adulthood on the day our parents encouraged us to ask “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” if we might call them by their first names. We believed the directive “duck and cover” would spare us the horrors of nuclear fallout.
Now that I am 63, I sometimes feel that my views bore my younger acquaintances who should rather, in my opinion, embrace the wisdom of my years. Now that I am 63, I feel invisible on the street and conspicuous in settings where people are in a hurry. But it’s not all bad! The advantage is that I am becoming a better listener and observer. I, the unheard, the unnoticed, am turning my gaze outward, studying you! Sometimes, I will admit, with envy as I admire the brilliance and creativity of 20- and 30-somethings. Sometimes with longing as I cannot recall where the time has gone since my children -- now 28 and 21 -- were little and I began to whisk away toward my gentle night. It simply takes my breath away that time has vanished in such a flash.
Still, for the time being, old is someone else. I will decide when I am old. To borrow from The Man Who Calls Himself our President, ‘I am the decider.’ Not you on the street, not AARP, not the clerk at Safeway. And the next time I am ma’amed, young ladied, or Grandmaed, watch out: I just may go Senior on you, and it won’t be pretty. Just like Travis Bickel, I’ve been practicing. “You talkin’ to me? Huh? Are YOU talkin’ to ME?” I’ve got the menacing look, the turn-on-a-dime pivot, and the quick (unarmed) draw down pat. You are no match for me, friend.
Underneath this carefully tousled traces-of-blonde hair, beyond the encroachment of crow’s feet and the drawstring purse lips beats the heart of a 63-year old woman who is read to summon her remaining youth to the test. No, I am not old. That’s our little secret, and let’s keep it that way for now. I have not begun to wear my trousers rolled and I have yet to hear the mermaids sing. So how about the next time our paths cross, you just look my way and smile? Our little secret!
I am only 63. I’ve got all my marbles, the energy of a 30-year (+/-) old, and, yes, some gray hair. I am not old. And even if I am, that is not your call! I will figure it out for myself and, when that time comes, perhaps I will look upon your ‘ma’ams,’ your ‘young ladies,’ and even possibly your ‘Grandmas’ as a compliment. Just not right now.
Forgive me, but it was only recently that I figured out that I am not even a Baby Boomer as I was born in 1945, on the cusp of that much probed and prodded generation. It is just this year that my almost-peers are catching up to me in age. That leaves me somewhere adrift on the vast tundra between the Greatest Generation (my parents) and the Baby Boomers (1946-1964) with whom I have identified since my freshman year at Berkeley. I am declaring right here, right now: I am a Boomer. You can’t take that away from me!
It’s a funny thing, growing old in this culture. You are suddenly at the mercy of hairdressers who assume you want to be dyed, teased, and sprayed beyond an inch of your scalp in a desperate effort to hide your age. The result is all too often a Crayola-ed, lacquered, helmeted head that betrays not only your age but your vanity. You do not look young; you merely look confused. And of course this transformation all takes place in a chair situated in front of a full-length mirror, next to a chair which boasts a young golden girl whose vanity and chin are intact.
I say no thank you to the “woman of a certain age” look. That went out with Mr. Ralph, my mother’s hairdresser, who specialized in “frosting” her hair to make it blonder, except that it ended up looking like a weasel pelt. My wise friend, Cele, has the brilliant idea of creating a national bad hairdresser registry for women of a certain age who wish to hold on to their dignity!
At 60, you become an object of concern for kindly grocery clerks who inquire sympathetically, “Help you out with those bags, ma’am?” (A double whammy!) I may be hyper sensitive, but I got myself into the store unaided. I loaded those groceries in my cart single-handedly. By golly, I will help myself out.
And it’s not just the hair and the dry goods situations. It’s realizing that your time is passing and things are changing. I grew up in an age where bra straps and boxer shorts were invisible undergarments, not fashion statements. A time when the response to “Thank you” was “You’re welcome,” not “No problem!” We stood when our teachers entered the classroom and shook their hands at the end of the class. We were inducted into young adulthood on the day our parents encouraged us to ask “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” if we might call them by their first names. We believed the directive “duck and cover” would spare us the horrors of nuclear fallout.
Now that I am 63, I sometimes feel that my views bore my younger acquaintances who should rather, in my opinion, embrace the wisdom of my years. Now that I am 63, I feel invisible on the street and conspicuous in settings where people are in a hurry. But it’s not all bad! The advantage is that I am becoming a better listener and observer. I, the unheard, the unnoticed, am turning my gaze outward, studying you! Sometimes, I will admit, with envy as I admire the brilliance and creativity of 20- and 30-somethings. Sometimes with longing as I cannot recall where the time has gone since my children -- now 28 and 21 -- were little and I began to whisk away toward my gentle night. It simply takes my breath away that time has vanished in such a flash.
Still, for the time being, old is someone else. I will decide when I am old. To borrow from The Man Who Calls Himself our President, ‘I am the decider.’ Not you on the street, not AARP, not the clerk at Safeway. And the next time I am ma’amed, young ladied, or Grandmaed, watch out: I just may go Senior on you, and it won’t be pretty. Just like Travis Bickel, I’ve been practicing. “You talkin’ to me? Huh? Are YOU talkin’ to ME?” I’ve got the menacing look, the turn-on-a-dime pivot, and the quick (unarmed) draw down pat. You are no match for me, friend.
Underneath this carefully tousled traces-of-blonde hair, beyond the encroachment of crow’s feet and the drawstring purse lips beats the heart of a 63-year old woman who is read to summon her remaining youth to the test. No, I am not old. That’s our little secret, and let’s keep it that way for now. I have not begun to wear my trousers rolled and I have yet to hear the mermaids sing. So how about the next time our paths cross, you just look my way and smile? Our little secret!
by Ann J. Procter
