Meditation on Being a Crone
I’m at an old school Italian restaurant, shoveling Caprese salad into my mouth, while sipping a glass of prosecco. My spaghetti and meatballs on order. Appreciatively watching the waitstaff do their seamless dance of service and care. I adore them.
All the while the twenty-something woman on a date next to me is asking the calorie count of every course and joking about how little she eats because she’s “just not that hungry” and listening to the blowbag buffooon she’s out with talk about his sailboat. For hours.
I sit in my yoga stretch pants next to them, happily and obviously ignored, awaiting my next course. Tomato and oil and prosecco fresh on my tongue. I sit unnoticed. At a bar.
No strange man, woman or child cares about women of our ilk. We are simply the aging female. A fox, a cat, a wolf. A hungry bitch. Alone, alone, alone…invisible. Incredibly and beautifully unseen. All the while, we uniquely can see a thousand years in either direction. A mirror upon mirrors. No one cares what we know, what we see-no matter how well we see it, know it.
Which is fine with us, isn’t it?
We’ll keeping eating our nightshade salads and sipping our prosecco. Nodding our heads knowingly, oil dripping from our greedy chins. Someday these lovely girls will be us, and we’ll welcome them with tomatoes and champagne and knowledge. (And endless stretch yoga pants because, well, sorry but fuck those young asses.)
So. In this moment, we live.
We are going to be so very happy. Right now. With our bodies. Our lives. Our menu.