When Does Feminine Mystique Become Crazy Old Lady?

This week went well. Whacked my hand as I was leaving for work on the door frame like I forgot it was bloody attached. Plus, it has rained so much this week (had to go back and edit that since, it ain’t done yet, apparently) that all the aches became pains, and they joined forces with a few I hadn’t met yet, and thus I have been engaged in a battle of the body. It is forsaking me. And I can’t ride, due to the rain, so I have been denied that meditative escape.

Sure, fine, I could ride, but it would lack that, em, pleasure. I prefer to listen to the rain, not necessarily be in it.

For a few moments this week I wondered if I’d been transported in my sleep to rainy Vancouver, B.C.

So, one could say I have been rather irritable, as I have a very physical job and I am absolutely horrible at taking it easy, and I don’t admit to weakness, easily. My left wrist has been sobbing, and so last night I finally gave in and requested to be spared the joy and bliss of dragging heavy boxes in the rain out to some customers inadequately sized car.

And, being the shortest, lightest, etc etc, the whole lifting heavy stuff thang doesn’t come as easily to me and so I have to on a good day use my brain to fill in where my body leaves off. However, my brain, unfortunately, was too busy whistling dixie, and so my flow was completely screwed most of the week.

And, other little tidbits of nonsense tested my fragile temper the last few days, but I won’t bore you, let us just say that I have a sore spot on my tongue from knawing on it all week.

By yesterday eve I swear to Artemis that I could have swiveled my head around and spit damnation and brimstone at anyone who got too close, so I gave other humans a wide berth; for their own protection.

Ain’t nature wonderful? Perimenopausal hormone surfing, coupled with rain showers for almost 7 straight days, and on a positive note, everyone lived, and no one was maimed.

Including that damn tree rat.

Which, btw, is not forgotten.

The thieving tree rat picked the wrong week to piss me off. I hope the wee rodent had his fill, cause his free ride is ENDING. Me and my aching damn joints are taking a ladder and thanks to a comment Charlene over at The Illusion Of Controlled Chaos made this morning, I am going to Gerri rig some contraption or other, rain or no rain. Wish me luck.

And I have TWO days off IN A ROW. WOOTWOOT!!!

Tis the small things, seriously, that pull me through, albeit sometimes kicking and screaming.

You know, I wonder, is that what defines the difference? Between mystique and crazy? Perspective? Or, em, maybe no longer giving a shit is more likely.

Staring straight at 50, the shits I give have dwindled.

Where in past times last night after work I might have lashed out at someone, got drunk, and probably did those two things in the reverse order and beat myself up for the next few days, instead I went to my cozy bed, cuddled up with the shnoggin’ doggin’ and fell asleep to some lecture on youtube on, dear lord, I have no recollection what, it will come to me later today, you know, just after I hit publish on this post, cause that’s the week I’m having.

I think my inspiration, really, was when the tooth in the front finally fell out, and I decided to not worry too much about it. I have a dental plan now, I can fix it at my leisure. But in the meantime, I find it keeps me in, away from that insidious bar scene I had often escaped to. As my teeth have become more crappy, I have become happier. Go figure.

Life is certainly a surprise.

And, the things I once thought were so very important, just don’t seem to hold the same weight. My loneliness, at some point, transformed into this hermitage of solitude, this chasteness.

When I’m talking to people, I don’t even think about my teeth anymore, I realized last night as I was trudging the 5 blocks home, in the rain from the bus.

I fear this may sound egotistical, but I have been told I was pretty my whole entire life. See, I really had nothing to do with it, so I’ve never given my physical self that much thought. But, when your hair starts to turn grayer, and your teeth start to fall out, and some young person calls you to the front to help this “old lady” out with her packages, and you know she’s around your age, the gig is up.

So a couple years ago, in a longing to once again see the real colour of my hair before it’s gone, I stopped dying it. Now my dark brunette is peppered at the temples with gray, but it is MY dark brunette and not some boxes version. I will not be pigeonholed into some box, and deny myself the things about myself that make me. Which is another reason I’ve not got hung up on my teeth, as I feel I could use a little character. Maybe leads me ways towards the crazy old lady, but so be it, keeps the hounds at bay.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not some hippy mess in flowing skirts smokin’ the ganja and spraying the world with “peace, man”. The ganja maybe, and while I may dress perhaps more eccentrically than some here in old London, Ontario, my manner is by no means slothful or drab. I believe in colour and scarfs and hats, as they do a wonder to hide the otherwise more slovenly outfits (wink, wink). And I fully admit, that I do have to on occasion remind myself to take a gander at what I’m actually wearing, as my INFPness does give me the tendency to completely ignore my outward appearance.

Another thing that just struck me, is that I wonder if the whole reason ancient man worshiped the feminine is so that the old ladies in the tribe would let them live? Which is possibly (probably?) why Putin was so scared of Hilary. Well, that and that she knew what the frick she was doing, and wouldn’t have snogged the last 100 days away on a golf course.

Mom and I 1972
Mom and I 1972 at the Lake (which Lake, I don’t know).

Anywho. Mother’s Day is coming up, and I suppose some of my anxiety might be due to that. Always happens around this time of year since my Mom died. Spring comes, the trees start to bud, and these Northern lands begin to awake from their winter slumber, and like our most ancient ancestors, we once again join in honouring the sacred feminine, and I miss her.

I miss having the one person in the world who I know without a shadow of a doubt loved me in all my weirdoness. The one who held my hand and took me out into the world showed me that there are many ways, many beliefs, as well as many, hurdles to face. I miss her council, her messages on my answering machine “are you still alive, it’s your Mother, give me a call”.

Maybe as I inch closer to 54, I have become much more appreciative of every little thing. At 50, Mom had no idea she only had 4 years left.

So, I’m having Zoodles for breaky, and leisurely spend the rest of this dreary morn sipping my coffee, devising a new way to prevent that rodent from eating all the sunflower seed.

2 thoughts on “When Does Feminine Mystique Become Crazy Old Lady?

  1. I just turned 54 and have had your attitude for a long time. I think it’s great and loved the post. My mother died when she was 58 and I cried reading how you feel. It exactly describes how it is. Other than the bike riding and being told you’re beautiful your whole life, I really felt this post. Really wonderful.


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