My sister is getting married in just over two weeks, and I suddenly decided this morning that I had to have a new dress for the occasion. I’m not desperate — I have this one from last year that I could wear — but I wanted to just have a poke around and see what the mall had to offer.
So I headed into Laura Petites, and I’m fingering their fancier evening-type dresses when along comes the saleslady. And she says to me, “Are you looking for something for a wedding?” and I say, “Yes, yes I am,” and she says, “Are you the mother of the bride?”
MOTHER. OF. THE. BRIDE.
Still not over it.
Probably never going to get over it.
(To answer your questions – she was not some young teenager, I’d guess she was around 50 and probably thought we were peers, which we kind of are, but NOT OVER IT. Also, I was kid-free as Little Miss Sunshine started preschool this week – I’m sure I would not have gotten that assumption with a preschooler in tow. BUT STILL. NOT OVER IT.)
I’ll be turning 40 in a few weeks and it really wasn’t bothering me at all. I kind of had weird issues when I turned 20, like WOE, my fun times are OVER, wah wah. But by 30 I was over that shit and kind of saw the new decade as a chance to finally figure out what it meant to be Lynn. Now I’m 40 and I still don’t have a clue but I don’t feel all that old and I still feel like there are lots of things to look forward to in life…
(like, apparently, the imminent weddings OF MY CHILDREN)
…so I wasn’t too fretty.
Then last weekend, my good friend Lisa came for a visit and I only see her and her adorable family like, once every five years, so we took some pictures. Gal Smiley wanted to take some shots so we gave her our camera and she snapped a few. In one of them I am bending over and looking to the side so she captured the top of my head, and HOLY CRAP, BATMAN, the grey hair. I have been absolutely fooling myself about the noticeability of the greys.
The old grey mare, she ain’t what she used to be.
So now, a wee bit fretty, yes.
It’s a little tough realizing that the hair colour ads and the nice, matronly beaded dresses with long jackets and the Oil of Olay commercials are aimed at me. That when my kids’ swim instructors and babysitters look at me, they see someone old (AYE AYE AYE). It’s rather like that time in my early 20s when someone in a store first called me “ma’am” — a turning point, where you know you’ve passed into the next generation.
Here it is, folks! Middle age! Welcome, settle in, make friends, you’ll be here a while.