Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.
Three years ago I experienced the thrill of turning 50. For me any birthday with a zero behind it was a special occasion. Each new decade signaled a new chapter in my life, a new beginning of sorts. I remembered when I turned 40 my Aunt Helen lovingly expressing to me the old adage, “Life begins at 40!” For me it really did. My 40s were a decade of singular accomplishments. I earned my B.A. at age 43; I reached a high level on the earning ladder at my then workplace; I was at my physical and sexual peak as a woman; and I had a new sassiness and vibe that enabled me to reach new heights on that climb to success.
Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.
Three years ago I experienced the thrill of turning 50. For me any birthday with a zero behind it was a special occasion. Each new decade signaled a new chapter in my life, a new beginning of sorts. I remembered when I turned 40 my Aunt Helen lovingly expressing to me the old adage, “Life begins at 40!” For me it really did. My 40s were a decade of singular accomplishments. I earned my B.A. at age 43; I reached a high level on the earning ladder at my then workplace; I was at my physical and sexual peak as a woman; and I had a new sassiness and vibe that enabled me to reach new heights on that climb to success.
My 50th birthday was exciting with friends taking me out to dinner, a beautiful birthday cake, balloons, flowers; but after the celebration was over a certain uneasiness set in. “Wow. I’ve lived over half my life.” The career I had carefully developed had hit a brick wall. In fact I seemed to hit a plateau in terms of career success. Then came “The Change”. I was not prepared. For puberty my mother and I had “The Talk”. However as I entered menopause my mother was long since gone on to her Heavenly reward and during this frightening period of my life my last link to the past, my beloved Aunt Helen passed away. I missed my Mom and my aunts terribly. Then horrible things were happening to my body that I did not understand. I sought explanations and some assistance from various GYNs. Their answers usually involved some sort of hormonal treatments which I instantly rejected since both my parents died from cancer. I decided I would just endure the deluge of sweat that engulfed my body day and night, drenching my clothes and making sleep impossible.
Of course I tried all types of holistic treatments. I do believe I’ve been through every herb and natural juices offered in the health food store. Nothing. No effect at all. I’ve decided it’s best to stay near the A.C., turn the fan on at night and keep bottled water with me at all times.
Menopause is an evil creature. She brought along her friends high blood pressure and arthritis to add to my daily pain and discomfort. Yes, this certainly was a ‘Change of Life’. Everything changed in my life, my diet, my ability to go up and down stairs without stopping for breath, the increased popping and cracking in my joints. I kind of felt like a human Rice Krispies, “Snap, Crackle, & Pop.” My mind was just as sharp and creative as it was at age 25 but I could not get my body in agreement with my mental desires.
But I told myself that I still had my good looks. Thanks to a fantastic gene pool and being a dark skinned African American Woman the saying, “Black don’t crack” is really true. Mind you this proverb only works if you took care of yourself when you were in your 20s, 30s and early 40s. I never smoked, did not do drugs, and only drank socially. I also exercised albeit moderately which kept me in fairly good physical condition. I’m also lucky that most of my family tend to be small people so I’ll never gain an extreme amount of weight.
However specific physical changes cannot be avoided. By the time I was 52 all my hair had turned white, seemingly overnight. Finally one day when I overheard a co-worker described me as the African-American lady with the white hair I knew I had to do something. The bubble burst. Reality set in. Oh My God! I look old! This would never do.
After conferencing with several women co-workers I decided upon L’Oreal Feria. First I started out brown because I had read that going back to my original color of black would just make me look hard and emphasize any lines my face might have. Finally I went red, no not Kool-Aid red like some of the pop stars but a spicy Fire Engine Red that matched my fiery personality. This was the time of my life to really experiment. After 40 more of the free spirit in me came out. I got tattoos on a yearly basis. Sometime after I turned fifty I had my belly button pierced but then my belly played a trick on me and I developed that menopausal belly bulge that comes to nearly all 50+ women.
Was this a chase after lost youth? No because I’ve always been a non-conformist. My parents were Free-Thinkers and they brought me up to be my own person. I remember when I decided to spike my hair back when I was in my 20s. My Dad thought I looked so wonderful that he took pictures of me and had them blown up to poster size. My parents support and encouragement fostered in me a self confidence that has enabled me to survive a multitude of challenges. It has given me a sustaining power. My mother and father always encouraged my creativity and insisted that I think for myself not just follow the script handed to us by society in general.
For me the next 50 years will be a celebration of maturity and individuality with lots of creativity and a little bit of insanity thrown in for good measure.
Donations and Freewill offerings can be made directly to my PayPal account deborah.palmer280@gmail.com
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Yesterday I finally came to grips with the fact that I’m a Geezer Magnet. Every man attracted to me is in the 65+ category. I blame the overuse of Viagra and his brother Cialis. The discovery of these medications has given dirty old men a new weapon in their limited arsenal.
My 78 year old neighbor Ms. Ruby and I were enjoying yesterday’s R&B music concert at our housing development. Good turnout. Great soul music. There was a 90 year old man sitting in front of us who kept trying to hit on me. Wanted to dance. For almost the entire concert he kept turning around trying to touch me. At one point I smacked his hand away. Ms. Ruby says he can’t do nothing. She says his dick probably like a dried up chili! Ms. Ruby also let me know that he was a widower who took up with five women after his wife died. One of his girlfriends’s wound up in a nursing home.
How this old coot wanna touch or dance when he can barely walk and if I pushed him hard enough he’d be crying, “Help me I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” Limp dick, bald head, spotty hand mofo still trying to get coochie! Damn shame!
Old Folks finally left the show around 7pm. Whew!! I could finally enjoy the rest of the show in peace & quiet. Mr. Age Spots almost got smacked in the head by one of my Muslim neighbors because he was trying to touch her butt as she was talking with us! Never mess with an African-American Muslim Woman. We had to hold her back. Shoot! Neither Allah nor Jesus would have been able to help that old coot if my Muslim neighbor had started whaling on his wrinkled behind.
Ms. Ruby told me he had buried one wife and put some girlfriend in a Nursing Home. One day that dirty old man will come and go at the same time! Viagra has made him overconfident. There is no way I’d want to see a man old enough to be my father naked.
Thankfully we were able to enjoy the final hour of the concert and our Kool & the Gangs favorites from the band. Next week is Gospel. Hopefully he won’t be there. Oh well as my parents used to say, “There’s No Fool like an Old Fool.” Rochdale Village seems to have an overabundance of dirty old men on the prowl. Go figure.
Another only in New York Geezer hit man story. A couple of Thursdays ago my friends and I boarded the Downtown M3 bus. Naturally we took seats close to each other near to the door. Paul was reading a story in the New York Times about the passing of author Gore Vidal. Next thing we know the drunk in front of Paul turns around and starts talking to Paul and Keith about another author Tennessee Williams. Paul and Keith are doing their best to ignore this idiot when after Cora and I began to talk he turned his ugly gaze upon us or rather upon me in particular.
I was trapped. He went on and on about how beautiful and natural I was, if I was married…. I told him that I was taken. He asked me what sign was my husband. I said Scorpio. “Hey, I like Scorpio men and they like me.” However this began to lead to sex talk. I told him I was a Christian. Then this demented beat up elderly excuse for Leon Spinks starts telling us or rather me that he used to be a pimp but now he’s a Christian. Meanwhile Paul and Keith have gotten very quiet. Every time we try to talk among ourselves, Old Folks Leon Spinks would chime in. After several tense moments Cora and I are praying that this guy gets off the bus. Our prayers were answered but not before he asked me to go with him to the liquor store. Damn that Negro had way too much Ripple or Thunderbird already.
Mr. Rotten Teeth also gave me a speech on his days as a Pimp along with his pleas for me to join him. When Raggedy Man realized I was moving he got off the bus but not without giving me a broken teeth leer.
Paul, Keith and Cora were relieved as well as me when he finally left. Dear God I don’t know why I attract idiotic good for nothing worthless men. Then to make things worse they all want to touch me and/or take me somewhere like the 75+ old coot who came to the museum talking trash to me about how I’d make a good slave in this play he was producing in North Carolina. I asked him, “Why I gotta be the slave?” Then he added insult to injury by asking me how to get to the New York Public Library. I informed him that the downtown buses; M2, M3 or M4 would happily take him there since I would not. Just get off at 42nd street. By this time he was getting desperate and saw that he was getting nowhere with his corny lines so next he implored me to escort him to the 19th Century Art section within the museum. Once again I refused his request stating that my supervisor who was in plain view through the glass doors would not allow me to do so. He looks at my supervisor then lets loose with the final insult. “Oh he looks like Obama.” My, my, my…. How white of him. Jackass.
At this point I’m totally disgusted and said Sir now go out there and tell my supervisor what you just told me. He and his cane hobbled through the doors over to my supervisor. After gaining his attention he thought better of his statement and just asked directions to the Impressionists.
Hopefully the next time I see Cora, Keith, Paul or my neighbor Ms. Ruby we can all laugh but hopefully we will not see this kook or any of his horny brethren again! Nursing home rejects. Nutty dirty old men in the museum, in the park, on the bus and in the subway!
Ladies I’m like Moms Mabley. As Moms used to say, “The only thing an old man can do for me is to show me where to find a young one!”
Donations and Freewill offerings can be made directly to my PayPal account deborah.palmer280@gmail.com
Espiritu en Fuego/A Fiery Spirit 