Oldish but Goodish
Somebody just called me “oldish.” More precisely, she said she used to “want to have sex with me” when I was on the State, but now she “realizes I am ‘oldish.’” What a terrible thing to say. Sure I’m getting a little long in the tooth, but that’s exactly why I inject myself with human growth hormone and tiger jizz. So that I do not go gently into that good night. In fact, I’ve never been in better mental or physical shape in my entire life. Granted that’s because I’ve always been sickly and wan, but I am just as sickly and wan now as I’ve always been!
I was really set back on my heels when she said that. You might think that a lady like that would have to be pretty young herself to make such a remark. Nay! Nay, she was not a young woman at all. In fact, she was, dare I say, oldish! Considerably oldisher than me, in fact, which in my book is the height of gall.
Oldish isn’t even a word!
Perhaps she meant “elfin.” I mean, once you get to a certain age, words begin to jumble in the brain, and perhaps she confused “oldish” with “elfin.” That would make sense because I definitely look like Liv Tyler and Orlando Bloom’s love child. People say that to me a lot. Plus, I think I actually have some elfin blood, as evidenced by my love of flying unicorns and the curly-toed shoes I favor.
Or perhaps she really does think I am past my prime. Which is kind of a depressing thought. After all, I’m pretty sure I never even had a prime. I had a pre-prime. I was definitely primed to prime. And apparently I’m in the midst of a post-prime. But where was the actual prime? Isn’t that the part where the world is your oyster? Where you wake up feeling invincible and full of piss and vinegar? A lot of times when I wake up, I do feel full of piss, but I never really associate that feeling with anything other than a full bladder.
For me, this gives the term “sub-prime disaster” an entirely different meaning. One I like even less than the other meaning.
This is the problem with being in the public eye. Whenever she wants, she can compare the twenty-one year old me from my time on the State to the current twenty-six year old me. Although I think I look better now than I did back then. There I said it! Yes, I’m aging, but I’m aging the way Robert Redford aged: like him, I now have a lot of huge bumps on my face.
I guess the sad fact is, we’re all getting oldish. Every day, inexorably oldish. Which on one hand is kind of sad because youth is mercurial, as impossible to hold onto as a greasy wiener. But on the other hand, it’s nice getting oldish. I know more. I care less what people think about me (that mean lady notwithstanding). And no matter what anybody tells you, the prostate exams ain’t so bad, either. So I accept your barb, madam, with grace. Yes, I am oldish, but I am also goodish. And I occasionally eat a radish. And I hope you read this, you miserable old bitch.