I think there’s an army of middle aged women out there set to pop. Perhaps it’s middle age that’s causing this. Perhaps a change in hormones. Maybe it’s when a well meaning hair dresser thinks you’ll be happy to learn that instead of the full on bimbo bleach she’s been using on your hair for 19 years she now thinks she should “weave in a little natural color since it’s mostly gray under there anyway”.
Women who are late 40s, early 50s just don’t seem to have the same goals as our mother’s generation. None of my friends play bridge or own panty hose. I may have missed it, but I feel certain I have never heard one of them answer “yes, dear” to any question posed by their husbands.
I believe, my friends, that most of us spent our 20s and 30s in mostly the same way. We got married, got cute little houses, got BMWs, got bigger houses. We got kids, got them into preschool, went to Gymboree. We spent Wednesday nights volunteering at church programs that caused us to scream at our children all the way there because they hadn’t learned their Bible verses. We got bobs, boob jobs, facials, SUVs, yellow labs, made Superbowl food and had polite holidays with our in-laws that caused us to gobble leftover pain pills in the bathroom. We got our son’s baseball pants their whitest, their brightest. I was a cutout for a perfect wife and mother.
I’m not sure when the rebellion set in. I mean, I should have gotten this out of the way in high school. Lord knows I partied hard enough. Still, around 40, something uncoiled deep inside me, caused me to gain about 10 lbs and asked me to please uncork some tequila. It has motivated me to swear like a sailor. I recently called my son a name which was so foul, so obscene that it sent shock waves throughout the universe causing my daughter and husband to have trouble getting enough oxygen.
Recently an online newspaper asked a question about marijuana. Before the minute was out 435 middle aged women had responded asking that it be legalized, taxed and sold in coordinating Lilly Pulitzer cases.
Thankfully, the Goose never even suggested that I should drive a mini-van. I believe this is responsible for the wrath of lots of women. It’s too much to ask. I think they should carry a warning that driving a minivan will cause you to lose your soul. Also sensible shoes, rooms painted taupe, children’s programming on tv, and wall to wall cut pile carpet in a color that hides dirt.
Authority? Can’t do it, can we? I find myself mentally flipping off policemen, store clerks, school administrators and neighbors alike. I heard myself actually tell my husband he wasn’t the boss of me. I said those exact words. I have my theme music all picked out for my police chase the next time someone attempts to give me a ticket.
If I call a friend and want to rant, I can’t even get the first sentence out without them jumping on the bandwagon and asking if they can lock and load. All they’re waiting for is a super hero costume and really, who among us isn’t? I just want it to come in Spanx material.
We’re angry, we’re ready to party and we have the shoes and the wardrobe to do it with gusto. We have the education and verbal skills to decimate the fool who attempts to argue with us. We have American Express cards, AAA and, some of us, friends in AA who can drive us home. It’s our time for fun. We see the light at the end of our mommy tunnel and I, for one, feel it’s now my children’s turn to take care of me. Before I even conceive of the thought, I want someone to pour me a wine, put it with a box of Triscuits and send them to me on a Roomba, which is doing my vacuuming for me.
I have no idea what kind of grandmothers we will become. It’s safe to say this isn’t going to be the generation that takes kindly to someone spilling a juice box on our Seven jeans and 6” Betsy Johnsons!