I’m pretty sure there are different parts of our personalities that stop aging, or like to pretend that they do.
For example, if you’re a 40-50 year old man, I’m willing to bet my left tit that there’s a 24-year-old somewhere inside of you coaxing you to believe that you can still rip down a mountain on a snowboard or pop right back up on your old surfboard. I know it’s true, I’ve been a firsthand witness to such injuries. Obviously I use this analogy for guys who are not still regularly doing these things, I’m talking about the guy who goes to work all week, watches tv, and plays cornhole on the weekends drinking micro brews.
There is definitely a part of me that still believes I’m about 28, as well as an immature 12-year-old in who still thinks poop talk is hilarious. Unfortunately for them, these parts are forced to reside with a much bossier, less adventurous and definitely less cool 41-year-old. 28 often has a good laugh when 41 is regaling her children with stories of phones attached to cords, and how there were only 4 stations which required turning a dial on the tv with your actual hand.
These instances bring back memories of my own mother telling me stories, about how her mother used to buy her shoes 2 sizes too big and stuff them with newspaper so they would last longer as she had to trudge 2 miles backwards uphill through a snowstorm to get to school. Whateves.
My kids are now looking at me with the same wow, you’re really old! face that I used to look at my own mother with. I was playing with them outside a few weeks ago, and my 4-year-old said, “Wow mommy! You can run!?” Jesus, has he never seen me run? Am I a fucking dinosaur? What. The. Fuck. Is. Happening?
This is when 12 or 28 get really pissed and shove their way to center stage.
Now 41-year-old Mommy is telling poop stories and farting and I’m The Coolest Mom in All the Land! They are cracking up and I am grabbing little wrists and an ankles and swinging airplanes till I could barf. We’re chasing soccer balls, and I am fucking Bending it Like Beckham and my kids are all woowwwww! My back is killing me but my inner 12 year old’s all fuck it so I start doing cartwheels with them, in daylight, in the back yard, with witnesses around. I’m all bossy trying to teach them how to do it right, and we’re manically doing them over and over and over…and I’m all like yeah Mommy used to be on the gymnastics team, and Mommy used to be on the soccer team, and Mommy’s been skydiving! Look kids! Mommy really is cool! I am fun! I have done things! Meanwhile I can barely brush my teeth the next day my back hurts so bad, and my hip keeps locking up but I try to hide it and the kids want to go outside and do it all over again, and I say I’m too tired, then they know.
Real Mommy’s back.
How does this happen so fast? One minute we can’t wait to be in our teens, and the next we are sitting with our national geographic boobs in our laps, telling our kids about the days before cell phones and google.
What the fuck? Just yesterday I was slamming beers and playing on an adult kickball league for the local bar. I could party until 3am, wake up and still attend an all day street festival, in a tank top with only a built in shelf bra. Now, by 8am I’ve wrestled 2 boys into clothing, made and cleaned up from breakfast, packed 2 lunches, inevitably cleaned up pee off of something, administered at least one time out, found the missing library book that’s overdue, started my second load of laundry and am chatting away in the coffee clutch at the bus stop, in my bra designed by NASA.
It’s quite comical really. Not.
One of the things I find most offensive – and ladies, correct me if I’m off base here – is being called “Ma’am.” It’s horrible. I am not a Ma’am. Ma’am’s use hot rollers and wear elastic waist pants. Ma’am’s need help out to the car with their groceries. Ma’am’s scold children for reaching in cookie jars. Ma’am’s always have extra pennies in their little change purse and tip with shiny quarters.
Aging is one thing, but don’t you go Ma’aming me before my time. There are a few stages we like to pass through first, which are MILF, and Cougar. These are our rights of passage. Please show us some respect.
You may think you’re being respectful when you call us Ma’am, but you’re not. You are being a dick.
I had my kids in the car a few months ago and was driving down a windy road past a local reservoir. There were a bunch of shirtless teenaged boys hanging out by their cars on the side of the road (the kind I would have been pulling tubes with and giving hand-jobs 25 years ago). As I drove by, windows down, sunglasses on, one guy whistled loudly fweeeeehh-fweeewwwh and another yelled “MILF!” I smiled to myself, and I knew I had arrived at my new position on the totem pole. And, I was cool with it. I’ll hold onto MILF as long as I can and graduate to Cougar when it’s my time.
In the meantime, do us all a solid and keep those Ma’am’s to yourself unless you see a fucking change purse.