Old Ladyville

by Patti


I boarded a train a couple of years ago, and it is still chugging away towards a destination I don’t ever want to reach: Old Ladyville

When I was a kid, Old Ladyville was a place I only ever passed through. It was the place my mother and her friends lived; the ones with jiggly faces and arms, and frosted hair.

And now, I seem to be on the Once-Slow-but-Picking-Up-Speed-Like-a-Cracked-Out-Train train directly into Old Ladyville, and this time, I’m not just passing through; I’m getting off. And before I know it, I’ll be one of those jiggly-faced ladies I used to just pass by, so fortunate in my fresh, dewy youth.

This morning, desperately in need of a root touch-up, I hastily streaked mascara through my hair. Bonus: It was one of those fat brushes that promises to plump up your lashes to 5,000X their size!, so not only was I blackening out those grays, I was also thickening up my thinning hair. Resourceful! I’m the MacGyver of Old Ladyville!

Also: My personal journey into Old Ladyville not only includes some decorative new lines on my face, I ALSO  get to experience the miraculous  surge of perimenopausal hormones that make me break out over and over again like a 13-year girl in braces. Weeee! Wrinkles AND zits! I’m so lucky!

As I make my way to my final destination, I have started learning the tricks and trades I will need to utilize once firmly (or not- so-firmly. Because: Hello sagging.) planted in Old Ladyville; things like mascara in the hair, Preparation-H under the eyes, mint-green mud masques on my face, Vaseline on the “feather” lines around my mouth. I have upped my workout from Level 6 to Level Maniac; I wave off that second piece of bread; I buy “lite”. All of these are Tools of the Old Lady Trade, and my GOD it is depressing.

What’s more depressing is that I still shop in the Junior’s Department. I mean, really? Yes, really. I just can’t go Misses yet. I can’t say “slacks” instead of pants. I can’t say “blazer” instead of jacket. I can’t stop wearing leggings with trendy long tops thrown over them. There I am: all mascara-haired and wrinkly/zit-faced, browsing the racks of sparkly one-shouldered tops and skinny jeans. All the while, I’m shaming myself with thoughts like, “Please don’t let me be one of those desperately-clinging-to-youth cougars; you know, the ones with long, layered hair and suspiciously plump lips. I want to age gracefully, I do!”

And then I catch my reflection in the mirror, a wiry gray sprouting off the top off my head that my mascara wand missed, and I wonder how extensively Botox has been tested. Is it safe? Will my eyebrows inadvertently freeze into a twisted Jack Nicholson expression due to a bad batch? I mean: it’s BOTULISM, for crying out loud. Aren’t we supposed to FLEE from that?

I haven’t made my appointment yet. Maybe for my birthday.