I realized this week that I have attained an age milestone.
I chose Granny panties. I admired the lacy boy shorts. I sorted through the thongs. And then I reached for a multi-pack of Hanes Granny panties. With relief.
I’m also understanding things previously hidden from me: Why women of a certain age wear elbow-length sleeves. What talcum powder is for. Where I can buy a crayon, not for an adult coloring book, but to cover the gray in the part of my hair.
I prefer to walk, rather than run. At the zoo I like the animals whose enclosures include a park bench for observers. I don’t eat much popcorn anymore; the hulls are too hard to floss out of my teeth.
I also have noticed that, in conversation, people say the funniest things now. Sometimes I’m guffawing and chortling while they just look at me with raised eyebrows and say “No, I said . . . . . . . ”
I’ve also noticed that if I don’t wear my glasses the house is cleaner. And when I was a twenty-something, I could never understand why a grown, older person couldn’t feel that smear of mustard in the corner of their mouth. Now, when I notice the eyes of my dining companion keep drifting to my lip that it’s most likely I’m sporting a condiment mustache.
And speaking of mustaches . . . . . I’m sorry, Mrs. Cain, that in the second grade I was horrified by your whiskers. My own chin seems to have sprouted. I never flip my magnifying mirror over to the “regular” side anymore. Vigilance is necessary to avoid the grandchildren petting my mustache.
On the other hand . . . . contentment and forgiveness seem to have found me, too. I’m not so hard on others. I’m not so hard on myself. I’m aware that time really does wound all heels and I no longer feel it is my job to hold up the measuring stick.
I may be wearing granny panties but I’m comfortable.