At the request of a friend who (for some reason I can't even begin to understand as they generally exhibit better taste) really, really likes when I tell the story (because in all honesty, it's not that good of a story. And no, I'm not being modest. It's an *okay* story, at best) I will try to retell, for them, "The Black Day I Discovered I Had Become The Lady".
I learned I had become The Lady while out shopping for sensible shoes (chicken? egg?). The ex husband and I were going out West for a week's vacation, during which we were to engage in all manner of outdoor activities--hiking, biking, camping, etc. Activities I knew nothing about (because I had successfully avoided them like the plague up till then) but had a feeling one should not attempt while wearing chunky boots with a platform heel--the only style of shoe I owned at the time. (Even my one pair of sneakers had platform soles. Revisit: style at the time.) So since I was going to break my no going anywhere that doesn't have an electrical outlet rule, I was also going to have to break my no granola cruncher trailblazing shoes rule and bite the bullet and get a pair. Lucky for me there was one of the those Ecco, Teva, Naot, Birkenstock (OMFG yes) retailers right in my neighborhood.
Right near my work actually, in an old factory which had been converted into a shopping mall. The building also housed art galleries, restaurants, and a night club; which is what I chose to park next to the evening in question. As I pulled into a space I saw the stage doors of the nightclub were open and a band was in the process of loading in. A punk band I gathered, from their haircuts and tattoos and piercings and totally hip, decidedly NOT sensible shoes. I watched them make a few trips back and forth to their van to see if I recognized anybody--not unusual in the small town that I'd lived in forever, that had only so many local rock bands, many of whom were either friends or acquaintances--but no, I didn't know anyone. Probably from out of town, I thought.
I got out of my car and headed for the shoe store, around the corner from the nightclub, passing the van en route. My passing seemed to startle them a little, but I figured they were just surprised to see (what I'm sure they assumed was) someone showing up to the gig so early.
Or to the mall so late, as it was. The shoe store had just closed for the night. But since I was already there I took a few moments to scan their inventory through the windows. I took in the view, shuddered, and turned to go; relieved that fate interrupted my descent into Squaresville.
I exited the mall, rounded the corner leading back to the parking lot, and saw the band again; now gathered around the open rear doors of the van. I--having grown up in nightclubs with musician parents; I having had more musician boyfriends and roommates and friends than those who were not; I, having been the sound man, the studio technician, bartender, fellow barfly, roadie, groupie, manager; I, Rock and Roll Queen of the Universe--I knew what the band's little back-of-the-van gathering was about. They had finished loading their equipment and had begun the all-important second phase of preparing for a gig: getting their pre-show buzz on. Beers had been cracked. Combustibles were combusting. A nice, homey scene all around.
I continued into the parking lot, caught the eye of one of my compatriots, and gave him a conspiratorial grin. Just then his face took on a sudden look of concern and he jerkily nudged the girl sitting next to him. In a flash beers disappeared into coats or behind backs, the pint bottle evaporated, diversional cigarettes were lit. As you know such moves could only mean one thing: we were no longer alone. Someone else, The Man, had appeared behind me no doubt, ready to do what they do best: pester we harmless rock-n-rollers while we're quietly minding our own damn business. A security guard, probably. Or some old (Birkenstock wearing) bitch who would complain about the bad element in the parking lot. Maybe even call the cops.
I turned around to get a look at the interloper but whomever it was had disappeared by then, thank god. As a matter of fact I could see the whole parking lot clearly from my vantage point. We were the only human beings for miles around. I thought of signaling the band somehow. Give them a 'Resume friends! The coast is clear!' gesture, one The Man hater to another. But I couldn't make eye contact with them, they had disappeared behind the van. I could only see a nose peeking out in my direction from time to time, the nervous flicking of ashes onto their shoes. Behavior, I began to think, I mean, if I didn't know better, the way they were acting, you'd almost think they were hiding out from *chuckle* from *chuckle* me! Ha, he, ha ha, he he...wait a fucking second. No. Can't be. The notion that it could even be a possibility was...that I'd walk by--ME--and...seriously, too absurd. Ridiculous.
I heard the crack! hissss of a beer being opened, then a disapproving hushed whisper, "Dude! Wait!...The Lady hasn't left yet!" And I swear to you, no shit, I was still that married to my delusion, I swiveled my head around one more time to see who the hell they were talking about.
The five stages of mourning went as follows:
(1) Denial: That'd be that final head swivel
(2) Anger: I WAS HANGING OUT BEHIND BARS DRINKING BEERS BEFORE GIGS WHEN YOU WERE IN DIAPERS! YOU KNOW WHY I DON'T WEAR MY PIERCINGS ANYMORE? BECAUSE THEY'RE ABOUT AS 'ALTERNATIVE' AS YOUR STUPID TRIBAL TATTOOS! I BET YOUR BAND SUCKS! POSERS!
(3) Bargaining: ...but I could put my face jewelry back in. Yeah. And get tattoos. No, tons of tattoos. Everywhere. And those knee-high Fluevogs...cut and dye my hair, nobody'd mistake me for a soccer mom then. I can still be cool. I'll join a band. It's not too late. You wouldn't hide your beer from me then, right guys? Guys?
(4) Grief: Oh fuck, I just want to go home. Go home and put on a little Chet Baker and drown my sorrows with that nice bottle of Chardonnay my husband and I bought at the wine tasting in Hammondsport last weekend. Yeah, I'll just go home and draw a bath and...Jazz? Chardonnay? Wine tasting?. OH MY Gah-ha-ha-haaaad!
(5) The fifth and final stage of mourning, acceptance, was forced upon me. A little one two punch.
I had decided in my grief that a of face-saving measure was necessary. Some kind of display to show them exactly who they were dealing with. I would squeal out of the parking lot. No, I would squeal out of the parking lot blaring my home-made best of Naked Raygun tape, full volume, which, as it happened, was the tape in my the player at the time, and proof positive that I was still, indeed, punk rock. I put the key in the ignition, rolled down all the windows, lit a cigarette, backed out of the space, positioned the car for maximum peel-out efficiency, and hit the "on" button on the stereo. The parking lot was immediately filled with the sound of...Mozart.
The tape had automatically ejected when the car was shut off. So the stereo played the last radio station I was listening to, in my case the local public radio station, which switches to an all-classical format after seven pm. The first step toward acceptance came then. Not because of the Mozart, because of the WHY of Mozart: My radio was permanently tuned to NPR.
After I passed the kids (kids, I then realized) I took a look at myself in the rear view: white girl, thirty-ish, hair in a bun (a fucking bun!!!), grey wool work clothes, sitting in a new thirty thousand dollar Honda Accord with leather seats, moonroof and power everything. Suffering a great ignominious end of cool because of a high-tech tape deck.
Yeah. I would have hidden my beers from me too.
Posted by Antigeist at February 21, 2006 11:06 AMMy ephiphany to the onset of 'old' was a few years back. I was living in an apartment in a small college town in Pa. I looked out the back window and saw some kids turning over trash cans in the back alley.
Before they got to mine I stuck my head out the back window and yelled at them to get away from the trash.
Of course that only encouraged them. They yelled 'mind your own business OLD MAN'. Well I didn't mind the 'mind your own business' crack but the 'old man' part kind of stuck in my craw. 'Whose an old man' I shouted back and promptly charged out the back door.
After about a block and a half chase I gave up. I was huffing and puffing and hadn't come within 100 feet of those kids.
As they say if the 'name fits'. It was the first time I had ever been referred to across the otherside of that great divide between kid and kodger.
Yeah it hurt. But now it's kind of sweet and I use it.
Yeah, I wear my old lady-ness as a badge now, too. You always heard old folks say they still feel like a kid on the inside. The older I get, the more I know that to be true. The damn body won't comply is all.
I try to remember that fact whenever I pass a gaggle of the neighborhood little old ladies, pushing their carts, hair done and full faces of make up--out on the town no different than me and my girlfriends. Or when I see an eighty year old guy checking out a sixteen year old ass, which is still creepy, but somehow less so if you can wrap your brain around the idea that he's a kid in an old man's body.
Strike that. Old guys leering at young girls is just creepy. But you get my point.