Oh my god who the hell came up with that croc of sh*t? There ain’t nutt’n golden about this time of life whatsoever. Well except a filling that’s actually gold and a conversation piece at the dentist’s office. A normal cleaning can turn into a “hey staff, gather around” moment.
The filling is one of two. Dental hygiene was serious business in my childhood. My father brushed his teeth with Ajax once a week for extra whitening and no I am not at all making that up. Now people noticed him in his golden years as his smile could stop an avalanche. He tried to do it on me one time but I screamed and ran as fast as a three year old could.
So instead of these day being golden, I find them more to be invisible. Am I even being seen? Now I believe in transparency of matters of the mind but somehow my body is morphing into transparency as well. It’s little things that say a lot. Like standing in line for the self checkout. Now this routine alluded me for so long, but I’ve got it down now and have been known to intentionally forget to buy stuff on a run just so I’ll be able to go back the next day and do it again. Some people pull slots. I scan bar codes.
But there’s something even more pathetic than that. People cut me off in line, like … LIKE I WASN’T THERE. I mean I’m small and a bit gaunt but I have a pulse and arteries with less than 25% plaque! Beat that you line cutters. I’ve perused your cholesterol-filled shopping cart.
Even my car is becoming invisible. A four stop intersection? I automatically place myself in the fourth slot. The few times I’ve tried earlier has ended up with a honk and a middle finger. I don’t mind it, as it validates I’m somewhat visible while being a menace, but as long as I’m being a conscious human … invisible.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t even see you standing there.”
“Oh my gawd, you scared the hell outta me.”
“Remember that costume party with the margarita machine? Oh you were there?”
(I hosted the party dressed as Nora Desmond.)
Nothing. So I guess these fast approaching golden years ain’t what they’re sposda be. If dressing in a gold lamé turban and my mother’s Canadian Beaver full length coat doesn’t leave an impression, I’m not sure what will. Oh and I paid $200 on a professional make-up artist. I didn’t skimp. Still, no recollection. Coulda been the margaritas.
I could streak a MAGA convention with a water pistol. Na, that’ll just get me prison time.