It’s slightly horrifying to look in the rear-view mirror and see prickly black hairs on my upper lip. Especially when I look closer and they’re on my chin too.
The thing is, I’m getting frighteningly close to the big five-oh. And what I’m finding out is that all sorts of weird things happen when you get that age. First it was glasses, then the saddlebags, then the memory lapses. Now it’s the whiskers. Why can’t you, as they say, get better with age, and then go out with a bang?
But there is an upside, I suppose, because now I take hormones! They’re actually rather wonderful because they’re bio-identical and probably biodegradable too, as they’re mostly made of sweet yams. The hormones fix all kinds of pesky little problems – except for the whiskers, which the hormones caused. Probably because of the testosterone in it, which my doctor said women need, too. I only wish I could have had some of that stuff a long time ago. I had no idea sweet yams were such horny little suckers.
It’s just all very strange, suddenly being this age. It’s kind of like being in The Twilight Zone, where a twenty-something person wakes up to find they are now hunched over and elderly and they let out this brain-curdling scream and then it fades to Rod Serling.
I mean, I don’t want to be facing no frickin’ “Golden Years.” Please, God, not yet! Oh I know it sounds wonderful with the cruises to Alaska, free movies at the senior center, and meeting your friends to play Bingo. You even get prizes! But it’s all one big Hollywood fabrication. As a lady at my mom’s assisted living home so adamantly pronounced, “The Golden Years suck!” And she’s the kind of person you don’t argue with.
I just can’t fathom the idea that on my next birthday I, Lisa, who has always been a youthful person, am going to be …well I already said the number in a previous paragraph.
Actually, sorry, I fibbed. It’s not fifty. It’s like ten years more. You do the math. It’s just, I know how that number comes across, and how people jump to conclusions. When I was in my twenties I thought anyone past forty, much less fifty, or God forbid, fifty plus ten, was, almost from another planet. I couldn’t conceive of myself ever being that age. And it’s not just me. I’m pretty sure this delusional thinking is universal. So I’m here to say, HELLO, you people under forty! Wake up! You too will be sixty some day, glasses, fat asses and whiskers to boot!
But you know what? It’s really not so bad. In fact, it’s good. For one thing, your friends (as long as they’re alive and you remember their names) are along for the ride, too. I mean, most of my friends have already reached that milestone and they are all smart, fun, and good-looking people. Especially when I’m not wearing my glasses.
And we all have just as much fun as we ever did. We really do! We’ve been together pretty much since the 1970s, and we’re doing virtually everything we’ve always done — having get-togethers and partays … and drinking wine and smoking pot. The only difference is now we can actually afford the better things in life. And I’m telling you, a nice quality Sativa ranks right up there with the finest bottle of Cab.
Except there’s just one little thing that bothers me a little: Imminent death. When I turned sixty, I started getting glimpses of this bright light at the end of the tunnel, and it’s not the kind you want to see. And if that’s not scary enough, I’m starting to get gas, more than I ever had before. So between death, flatulence and whiskers, things are getting a little precarious.
But aside from all that, it’s good. And anyway, what can you do? I guess enjoy the journey you’re on, as well as the confusion and memory loss – though that could a result of the pot. But, truly, these are darn good years. After all, I have good friends, and we have fun, and it’s quite possible I’ve acquired some wisdom over the years.
I also have those magic hormones, which I highly recommend. I’m telling you, those sweet yams rock!