by Walker Thornton of A Woman’s Page
My mother recently gave me a gym membership; she thinks I’ll meet a nice man there. This is the first time she’s ever attempted to fix me up, and I keep trying to figure out what her motive is (there has to be a motive). Maybe because I’m now fifty-six, she fears I’m destined to be single for the rest of my life? Maybe, as I’ve often suspected, she thinks I make bad choices, so she’d like to see me settled with the right one before she dies. Or–maybe because my sister is getting married in the summer–she doesn’t want me to feel bad, being the only unmarried one of her five children. But maybe she’s just being nice and cares about my welfare?
We’ve not had the best of relationships, although I’m happy and relieved to report that we get along quite nicely now. However, the teen and young adult years were full of ‘oughts’ and ‘shoulds’ and admonitions about my ruining my chances to find a man. Too talkative, too outspoken, refusing to wear makeup and play the ‘girly’ game–I was destined to be alone. All the boys I dated as a teen never measured up to her standards, and the only perfectly acceptable man I found and married, I divorced, much to her chagrin.
I’m dancing to my own drummer these days. I’m still not wearing any more makeup than I did years ago. I write with an obvious lack of restraint and share unmentionable stories, all of which surely won’t endear me to the right kind of man. What I’ve learned over the years, however, was that under her passive criticisms is a true concern for my well-being. She’d made some mistakes and didn’t want me to repeat them. Growing up with a very critical father, she was merely passing it on to the next generation. In her world, it wasn’t what was inside that mattered; it was the package.
Unfortunately, once we get to this post-middle age place, it really can’t be about the package. I’m pretty good looking, though growing in girth lately. However, packed into a well-made bra, Spanx, and a nice dark pair of slacks, I look quite acceptable. My hair is graying but attractively so. There’s promise, and many days when I look in the mirror, as long as I’m clothed, I’m happy with what I see.
However, it’s the deeper me that I want to find a match for. The real me is sassier than I look, sexier and wilder than my Eileen Fisher outfits would indicate. There is a potential for leather coursing through my veins. Intelligence, curiosity, playfulness, and a bit of a feisty attitude, combined with liberal leanings and a desire to make a difference in my community–those traits are what I want to flaunt, and they don’t require mascara and foundation or hair dye.
What they do require is gutsiness and an outspoken, self-acceptance. I’ve fought to fit in and not fit in, to be a wife, to be single, to be demure and submissive, to be some version of what seemed right at the time all my life. Now I’d like to just be.
I’m not exactly sure what that will look like, and I’m not sure that it’ll work for Mom. I’m going to the gym, and I’m wearing a bright purple t-shirt that says, Outrageous Older Woman. It’s baggy and adds the look of more pounds, but it covers my ass. And if there’s some guy out there who gets the humor in that shirt, who sees that I’m proclaiming the real me and wants to take a lap or two by my side, I’m open to that.
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