That ain’t no lady –

At book club last month, Jennie said something that completely nailed me to the wall.  She’s a grown up with teenaged kids, going to university to finish up her degree.  She told us, all day long, she runs around with these twenty something people, talking and studying and laughing.  And while she’s there, she’s just one of them, natural as spring water running down a mountain.  Then she goes into the ladies’ room, or home – anyway, she runs into a mirror and catches a glimpse of her own face in it—and hangs there, breath abated, staring at a face she never expected to see.  Her own, middle aging “real” self.  And it’s a huge dislocation.  A painful one.  We are not one of them.  It’s too late.

Yesterday, while I was still in the process of dying (as opposed to today, after a twelve hour sleep  – which left me washed up on the beach of life), I got a phone call from a store I like.  Not my fave.  But a graceful, grown-up sort of store where they keep track of customers they like.  Big two day sale, only for the folks who know, even on the already-on-sale stuff.  G kept popping in today telling me I needed to get out into the sun.  So I walked out into the sun, got into the car and drove myself to the mall.

I know.  I know.  But I didn’t cough on anybody.  I was only there a few seconds. 

I walked through this store, and it’s really a lady store, a grown up lady store.  So there’s a lot of stuff I hardly even look at.  Hey Les, though – there’s a sweater that looked just like you to me – it was really cool.  And on a huge sale.  But I didn’t get it.  I shoulda, but I didn’t.  I found a coupla shirts in really hopeful spring colors and a pair of really cool spring green linen pants and a soft yellow sweater.  And tried them on.

The pants were mondo ugly.  Trying on pants.  They will make you do this in hell.  If I could have had them cut the pants off from the middle of the derrière up, they’d have been fine.  Covered up, they were fine.  Even on sale, they cost way more than fine could justify.

I put the light green and yellow and white plaid kind of madrassy shirt on over my long-sleeved Gap last year’s amazingly clear yellow t-shirt.  Still had on the happy green pants, and I looked great.  Suddenly, it was all Easter and cheerful and life was good again.  Really.  Like seventy degrees and I was almost cute.

Then I tried on the rest – none of which worked.  Which was okay.  I was okay.  Until, on a whim, I tried the cute plaid shirt on again with just the pink camisole under it.  And that’s when I saw my arms.

Holy.  Creeping.  Cats.  I’m kind of a strong little thing—I argue with 1000 pound horses and win more than I lose.  I’ve got significant biceps.  Just enough definition that the sagging under-parts of my arms look like mush in comparison.  And forearms the same.  My arms look like they belong on a body that weighs way more than I do.  Out of proportion.  Odd.  Wrong,  Almost freakish.

Aging.

I dropped my arm down to my side, and it still looked awful – fish belly white.  Yeah, a tan can fix that, if you have time to acquire one.  But even a tan can’t make my arms look the way I remember them – tight, strong, clean lined.  I almost sat down on the dressing room floor and cried.  I will wear nothing but half or three quarter sleeves for the rest of my stinkin’ life.

I bought the shirt.  The color – had to have color like that.  But I felt awful.  Well, I already felt awful.  I felt awfuller.  And as I walked down the mall, I was looking in the shop windows and inside I was screaming I – AM – NOT – A – LAAAAAAAAAAAAADY!!  I’m NOT.  I’m NOOOOOT.

But I am.  None of the stuff in the windows could I have worn.  If I were young, I still couldn’t have worn most of the stuff because I’ve always had old morals.  But style—I am just no longer cute.  If I could keep my back to everybody, I might pull some of it off.  But there’s this face I carry now.  And these arms.  And I think – wait!  Wait!  I’ve got the wrong parts.  Somehow.  There’s been a mix-up.

The lady in the nice store and I had talked a little about this.  About mirrors and how she doesn’t look in them anymore either.  She was a happy lady.  She said, “I never understood it when my mother used to say, I am never a day over twenty four until I look in a mirror.” She handed me a bag.  “Now,” she said, “I understand only too well.”  Two grandmothers, finally understanding our own mothers.

To comfort myself, I went into Gap, where everything was too expensive, too weird, too young (except the Ts – which were short sleeved and thus hateful) and they were playing some punkish English band song.  I swear to you, the chorus was like, “TO-night, I had a lemur (beat, beat)Oh yeah (beat) Tonight I had a lemur.”

That’s all.  Misery loves company.  That’s just all.

Geneva told me to stop being sick and go out and play with my ponies.  So I did.  I got home, put on the ugly over-allls (at least I KNOW they’re ugly) and went out to play with my ponies.  Who were all sick.  Every one of them, running noses and hanging heads. 

So we all just sat around in a circle on the manure-y ground and sang Kum-bay-ah.