Brittany's Mother

I ran out on my lunch hour to get gas.  I wouldn't have bothered if I was sure I would make it home tonight.  There is a gas station up the road from the house and it is much cheaper in PA than NY, but I didn't want to chance it.

Anyhow, I ran in the store to grab some gum and was waited on by a young girl.  Given that it was the middle of the day on a Tuesday, she must be done with high school but looked like she just had her sweet sixteen party this past weekend. 

"Do you have a daughter Brittany?," she politely asked while scanning my gum.

"No."  I responded in the same polite tone.

"Oh," she said.  "You look like her, that's why I asked."

Keeping in the spirit of light-hearted conversation I jokingly added, "No, I only have one daughter and she's only one so I doubt you know her."

"Oh...wow!" 

Her response cut like a knife.

I know the written word can be tricky so let me elaborate... 

It was not an "oh wow, the Brittany I know is much older than one so you're not her mother..."

It was not an "oh wow, how sweet! You have a beautiful one year old little girl at home..."

It was without a doubt an "oh wow, you have a one year old?  God, you look too old to have a baby that young..."

Ouch.  As I envisioned myself leaning across the counter to smack her, I wondered how this happened.  That was me, not so long ago...

The other night I stumbled across an episode of Roseanne while flipping through the channels before bed.  When it was on years ago, I always identified with Becky.  She was closest to my age.  She had an annoying little sister.  Her parents were old and trying to be cool but failing at it.  At the time, I was Becky.  Whenever I see a re-run, I would return to that old perspective while watching. 

In this particular episode, Roseanne's age on the show was revealed.  Thirty-seven. 

Shit!  That's me now!  I am no longer Becky.  I am Roseanne.  I am a mom.  I am out of shape.  I am old.  I am not cool. 

I can never watch that show with my old perspective again.  It's ruined.  And Becky's a little snot.

I will be thirty-seven in less than a month.  I am starting to dread birthdays more every year.  To those who say it's just a number, I say bite me.  It's not just a number and you know it.  If saying it makes you feel better then good for you.  It's no consolation to me.

I think part of my problem in accepting my age now is the fact that I'm finally where I thought I would be...at about age twenty-seven.  I'm running ten years late.  Somewhere along the way, I lost an entire decade. 

And it pisses me off that now I feel some obligation to morph into the girly-girl I never was.  I'm proud that I can shower, get dressed, do my hair, apply just a touch of makeup, and be out the door in twenty minutes flat.  As close to natural and as easy a possible...and that used to be good enough.  I don't even use freakin hairspray.  I never messed with creams, lotions, masks, dyes...too much unnecessary hassle.

Apparently now it's necessary.  Dammit.

I guess every woman comes to this realization at some point.  Some choose to ignore it while others embrace it and run with it.  I'd love to ignore it but I can't.  I need to be a runner because I'm an old mom to begin with...as indicated by the "advanced maternal age" sticker slapped on during pregnancy...and I really don't want to go jail for beating someone senseless when they mistakenly refer to me as Punky's grandma at her third grade Christmas play down the road. 

Bring on the hair dye.  And the anti-wrinkle slime.  And the face mud.  And all the other crap that costs a fortune and barely works.  May as well get started with maintenance before everything totally goes to hell.  Guess I have some shopping to do.  Sigh.

No, I'm not Brittany's mother, but thanks for asking and ruining my day.