In less than two hours, I’ll be marking my thirty-third year of life on this miserable little green and blue globe. I’ve finally reached that trite and oft joked about age where women start wanting to subtract years from their age, and no longer wish to acknowledge or celebrate the arrival of yet another birthday. I am getting to the point where a fully lit cake would be deemed a bonafide fire hazard, and would far prefer an evening alone in the dark, watching all of the episodes of Grey’s Anatomy that I’ve missed since returning to the workforce, rather than whoop it up in celebration. Yes, I have become old and crotchety, and I don’t care.
Recently I observed that I have fully crested the formidable social status hump whereby waitstaff and cashiers feel obliged to call me “ma’am” instead of “miss.” I’m not sure when the transformation to sexless, aged matron fully took place, but if the consistent “Would you like a refill on your coffee, ma’am?” and “Excuse me, ma’am, can I help you?” are any indication, it is over, done with, and here to roost. Not long ago, I was still getting carded at the liquor store. Now? I’m practically toe to to with grandma. Hell, there are people on Facebook that I vaguely know from high school who ARE grandmas in their mid-thirties.
Glue factory, one way ticket, please.
The sad part is that it was only a few years ago that I was leaping out of my bedroom window to sneak out and party with boys because my parents wouldn’t give me permission. That I had to ask to borrow the car. That I wasn’t old enough to vote or even consent to decisions being made for or about me.
Female youth is fleeting: we’re forced from child to crone in a very short span of years. Blink, and the next gaggle of pretty goslings are making their way onto the scene, while the rest of us are pushed to the back of the hen house, fattened, sagging and lined. Fair it isn’t.
Speaking of fleeting beauty and femme fatales…happy birthday shout outs to my fellow March 10th sirens who made their mark on men and pop culture when they strutted their sexy stuff on the silver screen: Sharon Stone & Shannon Tweed.
Maybe we can celebrate together with a round of Botox and laser hair removal on our chins?