A woman I met today, a woman dressed in a mini skirt and flashy orange sweater, a woman too skinny to be comforting to anybody’s baby-child, a woman whose face and body looked, to me, like 20 miles of bad road, a woman trained to sell high-end houses and to prey upon the vanities of those who find themselves to be just terribly important, a woman appropriated to be the take-over trustee of an abandoned church building, told me today that I’m not old.
She is possibly 5 or 10 years younger than me. And yes, I admit, I probably do look younger than the image in her mirror.
But I am old. Trust me on this.
I dyed my hair last Saturday. (To get rid of the pole-cat look that a stripe of white down the side of my otherwise-brown head had bequeathed upon me these past few years, since Scooter died.)
I artfully applied some L’Oriel old-lady make-up before I left for work this morning. If you don’t move in too close, my skin looks radiant and flawless.
I am trying to “pass” for a woman in her 40’s. Only because I need to find myself a new job. And nobody wants to hire wonderfully skillful me, if they can see that I am 60 years old.
So it’s all smoke and mirrors, kids!
I can do wonderful things as a prayerful employee. I’ve got skills that God was developing in me when the 20-somethings, 30-somethings, 40-something’s, and even 50-somethings were still babes-in-arms.
I guess it’s good that I’ve always looked way younger than my years. With some extra help from the science of L’Oriel, I guess maybe I can even almost fool the youthful hiring managers out there. That’s my plan, anyway. But the plan sucks!
Sigh. We do what we gotta do to survive, don’t we?