This weekend I had not one but two people describe me as an “Erma Bombeck” type, except more cussy. At the time, I thought they were talking about my writing (ahem) but after today, I’m wondering if they weren’t describing me in appearance.
I’ve realized that I’ve become Everyone’s Mother. Truthfully. I’m yours and yours. Likely yours. Let me explain.
I turned 43 in January. It didn’t really bother me much. I figure on a really good day, if it’s overcast, a bit foggy, at dusk and you are standing 30 feet away, I can easily pass for 42. I’ve hit “That Age“. That matronly, oh-so-unshaggable age. Where everyone except the 60 to 70 year-old crowd thinks of me as a barren field that never needs plowing. Of course, my husband is not included in that, as he is mandated by our vows and in the eyes of god to throw the stick at me on occasion. If I’m not too tired. But to the rest, I’m old pie.
On the rare (oh so rare) occasion that I actually catch some myopic, possibly drunk man checking me out, two thoughts go through my head. The first is “I must have put my bra on over my shirt again” and the second is “Do I have a booger flapping out of my nostril?”.
I’m fine with it. Really. With the age comes the shift in thinking as well as behavior. I have no problem doing the shirt tag tuck on you. Mentioning that your fly is open. Letting you know that you have a little something on the corner of your mouth. I might even wipe it off for you. When I meet or talk to young men I think to myself, “Oh he’s such a nice young man! I hope my boy turns out like him!!!” See? Motherly. Matronly. I’m an Erma.
This afternoon, I stopped for gas. As I was pumping fuel, a man on a motorcycle pulled up. I’ve always had a bike interest so I glanced over, in my head thinking “Please let it be an old Triumph! Please!” It backfired and stalled and he said “Son-of-a” and stopped because he saw my middle-aged mommish face.
As I went to pay, this big 6″5″ leather clad, bearded biker chap followed me in. While I was waiting for my transaction, the cashier asked him if he had his discount card, to which he replied that he didn’t. I turned and smacked him across the shoulder and said in my best lecturey mom voice (complete with finger wag) “You’ve got to get one! Five cents off a litre!” He stammered something about he gets gas all over the place (Oh really? Me too!), to which I shook my head, frowned and said “That’s no excuse!” And as I walked out the door (which he held open) he said “Have a nice day!” To which I responded, and I quote, “You too, my dear! Have a safe ride!” He was probably around 30 and a badass. But to him, I was Mom. An Erma.
Holy mother of God, it’s like looking in a mirror!!!
I give you one of Erma’s quotes on aging: “The only reason I would take up jogging is so I could hear heavy breathing again.”
The hubby just walked by, glanced at me working on this and said “Where’d you get the black and white photo of yourself? It looks good.”
I’m not sure whether to play fetch with him or give the stick to the dog to gnaw on.
Erma. Me. Yeah.