“Wheey-it a minute, wheey-it a minute! That would make you a cougar!”–the other night a very “old” comrade of mine tried to get the facts straight when he learned of the 4-year difference between my lover and I. “Baryshnikoff!”–(he tags me by the name of his own invention)–“You. Are. A cradle-stealer!” Funny, comrade. Real funny.
My records will speak for themselves: Prior to my current boo, I’ve always had a preference for the older gentlemen. Well… Except for this one time… and then, that other time, that happened just once… Regardless: Either due to my former youthful arrogance toward the opposite gender or my daddy issues, at least a five-year gap in my man’s favor was always must. But, as I am claiming these days–with dignity and pride in my man’s age (and appearance)–the tables have turned. Or the clocks have stopped. Or the patterns of revenge on my own absentee papa have been reversed. I shall leave it up to my fabulously aged shrink to dig up the reasons for this change; but I must hurry to admit: I LIKE it.
But the question on today’s agenda–is not my lover’s age. It is my own. For the very first time in my life, I feel that I have become the woman I’ve wanted to be. Although I’ve owned a vagina for now THIRTY TWO YEARS (!), and although I’ve never really been the type of a broad to be in denial about its functions or consequences, only in the last half a decade have I been fully thrilled to carry its license. As for my curvatures, I have accepted my handful-sized breasts and the apple-shaped behind (which still earns compliments from prepubescent boys and men-children alike); for I have learned: The secret is not in the baggage–but in how you carry it. I am perfectly alright with never achieving the measurements of Ms. Monica Bellucci (although I doubt that my mouth–and lips–will ever stop watering at the mere thought of her); because I’ve been granted exactly what a woman of my size and ambition is supposed to handle. I’ve been given just enough. So: I’m the petite brown yogini type that travels light and runs away from the ways–and men–of her past. ‘S cool.
Yet, now that I have finally started liking my own refection, my mirrors have begun to bend. Those fuckin’ wankers! A wrinkle here and there has yet to make me freak out. But my body’s sudden obedience to gravity–that has been somewhat disheartening. Just the other day, a friend’s photograph has captured my breasts’ misbehavior: while refusing to salute via the erect nipples, the actual white meat was in the midst of some sideways shift that left V puzzled at first–then horrified.
So, what IS a woman to do when the signs of aging are no longer possible to ignore? Cover up the mirrors? Hire a surgeon in 90210? Drop all girlfriends with honest tongues–and get a membership to the Real Housewives club?
Well, the lovely, gorgeous, soft-skinned compatriots of my own gender: As the British government propaganda has once eloquently proposed, the answer is–“To keep calm and carry on.” I have yet to discover motherhood or house ownership or retirement–or whatever else older age delivers into a woman’s capable hands. Yet, already I’m beginning to adore my reign in the kitchen which would have been not only impossible but offensive to the young feminist I once was. I dwell in my maternal tendencies toward my comrades and lovers; and those too have flooded my heart primarily with age. The strut with which I have learned to carry my petite frame, the sway of my apple-shaped ass, my perpetually un-styled, disobedient hair–there is a degree of self-acceptance in all of it that I would not trade for any goddess-like endowment of Monica. Besides, my 20’s were such hell hole–I’d rather lick a Hollyweird tranny’s taint for breakfast every morning than miss–or go back–to my “youth.”
So, I shall “keep calm and carry on” while bending my limbs and curvatures into pretzel shapes of my yoga classes. I shall tend to my health and accept the way it looks on me. I shall continue my weight management that consists of mostly chasing my dreams and keeping up with my young lover, and pray that the esteem of self-awareness and a life well-lived will make me find myself still sufficient–and beautiful!–in a few more years. As for my men: I DO hope that the vain or the delusional ones depart for the younger types–and the sooner, the better. And something tells, me that only the ones I actually want to be with will stick around for a woman well-aged into her skin–who reigns in the kitchen and fucks with the lights on–the woman I am continuously becoming.
P.S.: “All fine and dandy for her, that biatch!” you might say, my dear ladies. If you must freak out and disagree with your mirrors, at least follow the ways of the French: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/15/fashion/15French.html.