I always wanted a personalized license plate that said BLONDE and then mount it upside down on my bumper. Not that I really think blondes are dumb. Usually they're so far ahead of the pack, in fact, that other folks (like brunettes and redheads) don’t even get that they are the ones left behind. Some things are just not worth explaining—hence the bad rap.
Even though I’m a blonde in my inner psyche, my outer psyche is, well, to put it frankly, gray. I colored my hair for a short stint before my rebellious nature took over and I went a’ natural. Although I find a’ natural the most natural thing in the world, some don’t think it's all that orthodox. Take the receptionist in the doctor’s office:
Her: Is that your natural hair color?
Her: Have you thought of dying it?
Her: Mmmm. Well, have you considered a wig?
Me: Uh… noo-ooo.
Her: Oh. Well. It’s… pretty.
I turned gray prematurely and I think it’s worked pretty well for me. In fact, I’d say I killed it! Ew. On second thought, maybe I hadn’t better. But there's something about gray hair—even my trend settin' trail-blazin' super-stylin' silver-white foxy gray: it flashes the word old, at least to the young. My teenage grandchildren are unrelenting with jokes about aging, and let me tell you, it’s really getting old. It’s okay to be old, Nana. I know others your age. Well, knew others your age.
I give them some exceptionally sage words of wisdom. These are the ones I can print: Have some respect for your elders! Getting old is actually the idea; it’s what every mother wants for her child. Ever heard of football? Well, the End Zone is the coveted goal that everyone in the game strives for. Duh! Anyone with half a brain would want to be old when they grow up. Besides, It beats the alternative, right? So grow the heck up!
Being old(er) is a lot like being blonde. There’s more than just dribble coming out of our mouths. The topics of our conversation aren’t just limited to prunes and Jesus, though I don’t question the importance of either. Our thoughts are deeper than hundred-year-old wrinkles and our ideas are timeless. (I’d say ageless, but… you know.) The Mature Crowd could show those young, wet-behind-the-ears, age-impared whippersnappers a thing or two and not just our gray.
They say forty is the new twenty, and I’d have to agree. Probably sixty is the new forty. Beyond seventy there isn't a "new," for obvious reasons.
When my mom was eighty I asked her what age she’d go back to if she could. She thought for a minute and then declared, “I wouldn’t go back. I just want to be the age I am now.” I was stunned by her answer. For some reason I thought she’d want to go back to being at least my age.