The thought of growing up scares the shit out of me. In fact, the only thing that scares me more is thinking about being old.
Having to be an adult with a real job and car payments and bills is bad but thinking about wrinkles, saggy boobs and a leaky bladder makes me want to curl up in a ball under my sheets and just cry. Or at least devote my life to making a machine that can stop the aging process while allowing my life to continue on uninterrupted.
That is until last weekend when I met the coolest old person alive (sorry Grandma). Sunday night I was bartending for a private party at the Nitty Gritty. Almost nobody was drinking, except for one anonymous boozer who ordered three glasses of white Zinfandel from a server within one hour of being in the restaurant.
Interested in finding out who this wino was among the crowd of lames, I watched the server bring the bottle of wine out to the customer. Not surprisingly, the wine was handed to the organizer of the party, who had totally earned the right to drink after planning a surprise party for 50 people. But she turned around and handed the glass to a woman who looked so old, when I first saw her seated in the booth. I wasn't sure if she was alive or not. Move aside, Lindsay Lohan, I've found a new personal hero.
Totally intrigued, I began inquiring about the woman. Through a brief questioning of the other guests, I gathered the following information: She was 84-years-old, the grandmother of the birthday boy and earlier that week, learned how to give a seductive lap dance by attending a pole dance party at Miss Pole.
Three very important things happened during the course of that private party: my fear of getting old semi-subsided, I made enough money to pay my electric bill and I decided who I wanted to be when I become a member of the geriatric population.
After years of tanning, drinking heavily and taking absolutely no health precautions whatsoever, I'm well aware of the fact that I will not be able to age gracefully and will probably look like the Crypt Keeper around age 64. Instead, inspired by the pole-dancing grandmother, I've decided to age awkwardly.
I don't want little kids to remark about how frail I look and how I smell like Vicks VapoRub like I used to do when my elementary school choir was forced to perform at a retirement home in third grade. I want to be that old lady that makes people uncomfortable when they're around her. I want to be the one that dyes her hair blue, farts loudly without apology, has more cats than the legal limit and reads the obituaries to keep track of who she's outlived. And I definitely still want to be in a pole dancing class putting skanky college girls (not unlike my current self) to shame.
To avoid turning into the cliché grandmother, complete with tacky sweaters and an assortment of hard candy at the bottom of her purse at all times, I've come up with a few fool-proof steps: the first is to never have children, and therefore make it impossible to ever have grandkids. I will refuse to ever wear a heel lower than two inches to any formal outing and will never purchase any holiday-themed clothing—or dangling earrings shaped like pumpkins, snowmen, etc. Additionally, I've written a letter to the AARP instructing them to never, under any circumstances, send me any kind of letters, magazines or membership offers.
I guess I owe that random kickass old lady a thank you for making me realize there are worse things than turning 60. I'm sort of looking forward to being ancient now. Apparently, it makes you exempt from being a designated driver and having to pretend to be a classy woman. Come to think of it, I can't wait.
If you have stories about your grandma that make Jillian's new idol look lame, let her know at jlevy2@wisc.edu.
