Can we talk a little bit about age? More specifically, age-appropriateness?
To start, I was at the grocery store this morning, stocking up on watermelon, hummus and flax seed chips for our picnic at Astoria's famous Socrates Sculpture Park on the Hudson this afternoon. It was a gorgeous, 75-degree day, and I was in a great mood. Until I saw Harrison Ford's old ass wearing a crumpled Indiana Jones hat on the cover of Entertainment Weekly. Ugh. I wasn't even hungry for flax seed chips anymore.
It put me in quite a state, I must confess. I mean, that man and his grizzly white chest hair needs to give it up. Christ! the EGOS on these old ass actors! Take a page out of Wilfred Brimley's book, and play a grandfather, will you? For the love of all that is holy?
I hate to sound all feminazi and shit, but women actors simply do not do this. Perhaps I'm being naive about the Hollywood machine that puts the metaphorical bullet in actresses heads once they reach the age of 35, but it does seem to me that these ladies at least have the dignity to slip into age-appropriate roles when they're, like, sixty. Name me one actress who is still reprising a role she originated at 30 when she is 60 and I'll gladly retract this statement.
But I bet you can't.
Let's look at Stallone, for christsakes. Standing in that boxing ring, his eyes bulging out of his head from the amount of steroids he's injected into his ropy, protruding veins, he looks like he's one punch away from a massive coronary explosion.
But does that stop him from sodomizing our collective conscious with yet another Rocky movie?
I have a problem with all of this, I guess. This fighting-the-age thing.
Now, take me for example.
This morning, while brushing my long brunette locks (which I have continually resisted the urge to cut for the last two years), I noticed a strange foreign glint, as if someone were perhaps creating a glare against my head by holding a small mirror against it. A closer look made me gasp, as I realized what I was looking at was a single white hair. A long, lonesome, hateful, horrifyingly misplaced white motherfucking hair that somehow must've jumped ship from some elderly bitch sitting next to me on the subway and landed on my head. Quite certainly by accident, of course.
I went to brush it away with my fingers but it would not budge. Because it was growing from my scalp.
It really and truly was.
Did I panic? Did I see this as a sign that my newly-35-year-old-ass is suddenly entering the age of Nice 'N' Easy?
No. I didn't panic.
But I did yank it out with a tweezers and take a pic for y'all.
But I'm not upset. No sir, not me.
I didn't even get upset when, while getting her hair brushed out after her bath tonight, Lily stated frankly, "We have the same hair color, you and me, Mama. Except I don't have any white hairs because I'm not getting old".
Nope. Not upset. Not one bit.
Now if you'll excuse me I have to run to the Rite Aid. I have some hair dye to bye. Crap.
The Blizzard of '17
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