I do not have wispy white hair pulled back in a bun. My hair is as soft as cotton candy, as thin as a spider’s web, and as brown as bad honey, but I do not wear it in a bun. I have bad hair; I don’t want to make it worse.
I do not wear what we used to call “corrective” shoes—black, lace-up numbers with rubbery soles. I wear Toms in an array of bright colors and patterns. They may be “sensible” shoes, but they are cute—really.
I do not wear “old lady” clothes, house dresses, or muumuus. I buy my skinny jeans and Coastal Grandma blouses online. Mostly from Soft Surroundings and Northstyle. Check them out.
I drive at night, and I can do it on the freeway. I can get up from a chair without grunting. I drink caffeine until 6 p.m. I can work my phone, my computer, and my TV.
I am 73 and have somehow begun a new career as an author.
SOOOOO, why have the last three books I read featured women between the ages of 60 and 80 who were portrayed as crotchety, dowdy, feeble, and crazy? Hmm?
One of them is even voiced on the audiobook as if she’s 100 years old. And she’s 70! Three years younger than I am!
I am offended!
These books are popular, one is extremely popular, and I liked them, but come on! Do I have to be subjected to reading about their bathroom issues? I have those of my own and don’t want to read about it for entertainment.
One of them has the woman shuffling about, barely able to maneuver from her chair to the car. For most of us, that only happens after a number of margaritas.
And in all of them, the poor addle-brained thing makes one crazy choice after another. I don’t know anyone who has brandished weapons, started fires, hid out from her children, or withheld evidence from the police because she thought they were bobbleheads.
Anyway, just an observation. And maybe a decision about my next book. Maybe my heroine will be a 70-year-old detective. She will wear skinny jeans, cute Toms, and have a blond bob. She will drive at night on the freeway and drink margaritas. And she will never have to go to the bathroom.