Ruminations of a Red Dirt Hussy

October 12, 2018

Getting old is hard. Really.

Filed under: General — Vadasmaker @ 3:45 pm

My lament for the last six months has been, “People ignore me because I’m old.” I thought being invisible was the worst part of aging.  It’s not.

You know what the worst is? The worst is when you go to Walmart to buy a bottle of wine (I just love saying that). So, you go to Walmart to buy a bottle of wine, because, you know, you can. And you go to check out and the cashier says, “Are you over 40?”

And then she SNICKERS! Snickers, people. And she was old as f**k her ownself.

And then, like that wasn’t bad enough, when I said I was 65, she said—to my not-that-old- looking face—“I would’ve guessed older.”

I should have seen this coming. Five years ago one of my favorite students—who was close to 30—was in my office, and he asked me if I was Native American. I get that a lot. And the whole world knows now that I’m the whitest person on the planet. I’m probably the only person in Oklahoma who doesn’t claim that her great-great something was 1/37  Osage-Apache-Creek or something. Even my fair-skinned, blue-eyed grandgirls are card-carrying Cherokees.

Anyway, I said, “No. Not a drop of Native American.”

And Tyler—that was his name—said that was a surprise to him, because I reminded him so much of his Native American grandmother. I don’t know what tribe it was. I had already crawled under my desk and curled into a fetal position, and anyway, it’s hard to hear when your fingers are in your ears and you’re babbling, “La la la la la la la la.”

I mean, come on. I haven’t even made the step-down into granny panties and mom jeans. WTF? I may not wear an itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny bikini to the pool anymore, but I definitely wear a very not-grandma two-piece. I’m the most bikini-worthy person there. Well, except for that one woman whose floatation device mysteriously developed a leak three days in a row. And who heard that the pool might have some kind of antibiotic-resistant water borne bacteria. I don’t know anything about that. One day she was there, the next day—gone.

I know my bikini-worthiness depends on the presence of many other women who have learned to love their bodies and therefore don’t give a tinker’s damn how they look in a bathing suit.

That was never me. That never will be me. When I’m 80 I’ll still be asking Jim, “Remember when I used to be pretty?”

If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll say, “What do you mean, used to be?”

And if he doesn’t know what’s good for him, he’ll say what he’s really thinking then run like his head’s on fire and his ass is catchin’.



Leave a Comment »

No comments yet.

RSS feed for comments on this post. TrackBack URI

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Create a free website or blog at

Female Serial Killers

A psychologist explores the minds of women who murder

%d bloggers like this: