Well, hello there dearies, it's Auntie Maudie here. Come on in and have a seat while I take the freshly baked, homemade chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. Or would you rather have a slice of my special recipe apple pie which just won the blue ribbon at the county fair? The tea will be ready in just a moment and then we can have that chat about your garden and how to keep those nasty aphids off your prized roses.
Fuck.
That.
Shit.
"Whoooaaaaa, Maudie, what the hell is going on here?" you say.
Sigh.
I'm a...'sweet'..... 'middle-aged'..... (gulp) (wince) 'den-mother' .......... that's what.
Hank started it, referring to me as 'Sweet Maudie' in his post Holiday Classic trip report. My initial reaction to that endearment was one of, well, endearment. Made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. But then I caught a glimpse of this woman out of the corner of my eye which brought me up short and which I immediately ignored and buried somewhere deep in my consciousness.
Then, recently, came 'den-mother' from Iggy. Again, I smiled at that appellation - mainly because I'd imagined the next big 'con' at the tables in Vegas next June might be that this group was a reunion of Boy Scout outcasts that had formed their own renegade troop of which I was troop leader - but then that woman caught my eye again and I quickly averted my eyes - I did not want to acknowledge her. Nuh uh. No way.
And today, while cruising through comments over at Up For Poker, I came across an aside in one reader's comments which painted me as a 'sweet middle-aged woman...' And then, there she was, waving at me from across the way. Flowered dress, fluffy white hair, apron, cats around her ankles, a pot of tea in one hand and a slice of pie in the other, smiling benignly... it was Auntie Maudie - she was me...
Nnnnnnoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!
I suppose it's no accident that this subject is niggling away at me like a splinter under the nail in that my 54th birthday arrives at the end of this month. But what is really niggling away at me is the fact that this is niggling away at me. Aging is not something which has particularly bothered me in the clichéd way it seems to bother a vast majority of folks who hit that birthday milestone year after year.
Amongst my friends - who span several decades in terms of age - I rarely feel defined by age. There are differences, yes (play the "how old were you when game" with some one 20 years your junior or senior and you'll know what I mean) but nothing which has the potential of putting up a barrier to our friendship and enjoyment of each other.
So what's the problem I'm having?
Parsing the endearments you first have 'sweet.' Ok. I can live with that. I am nice person - I have the disease to please and I just can't be not nice (most times). I'm a 'Pollyanna' and think positive, have a long fuse and hate confrontation. I like being nice even though I secretly wish I could be not nice more often...
Next comes 'middle-aged' - well, I guess I'm grateful for that. If I'm middle aged, then that means I'm gonna live until I'm 108 (which may be in the realm of possibility given certain longevity in my family, advances in modern medicine, and immigration to Canada).
Not much to say about 'woman' - that I am. Could be taken note of more often, but no room for argument there. And then there's:
'Den-mother.' That one could change with context, so I will leave that alone.
But when they are strung together - 'Sweet middle-aged woman/den-mother' - that's only a gray-hair away from 'Sweet little old lady' - and that nightmare of an image I spoke of above pops insidiously into my head and makes me want to run screaming into the night. I'm not your mother... I'm not a mother (I'll grant one exception to that and one only - I've claimed Pauly as the illegitimate child I never had). I am an aunt and even a great-aunt (niece married right out of high-school), however my nieces/nephews rarely call me 'Aunt'....
I guess where I'm heading with all this, is that I feel ageless, so when I'm hit with reminders that I'm not it irks me. It irks me because then a label is applied which then becomes a barrier. And that barrier could bar me from the tree house, cause a hush when I enter a room, or force an apology to me after a dirty joke is told. Y'see, I'm most comfortable being one-o-da-guys, a pal, a runner-with-crowd - no matter what the age makes up that crowd.
So call me 'sweet,' call me 'middle-aged,' call me a 'den-mother,' - just don't forget to call me when the party gets started, know what I'm saying?
