Wendi Aarons - Im Wearing Tunics Now: On Growing Older, Better, and a Hell of a Lot Louder

Im Wearing Tunics Now copyright 2022 by Wendi Aarons.

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Versions of some pieces originally published in

McSweeneys Internet Tendency and The New Yorker.

We Cant Ask Your Age in This Job Interview, but Please Take

This Quiz about Rotary Phones cowritten by Devorah Blachor.

Reprinted with permission.

The Perfect Cocktails for Your Perimenopause Party cowritten by

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ISBN: 978-1-5248-8407-9

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022941127

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To Chris

Contents

Introduction

A few years ago, I was in New York City for a week-long family vacation. The day before we headed back home to Austin, Texas, my younger son, Jack, and I decided to spend the afternoon wandering around Central Park. After walking five miles that left him no worse for the wear but me with sore feet, we were caught in a sudden and heavy rainstorm that wasnt predicted by our weather apps. So, like everyone else in that part of the park, we ran over to the American Museum of Natural History for an alternate indoor activity. We waited in line outside for a good forty minutes, ignoring the throngs of wet Europeans and the aggressive umbrella sellers whod materialized mere seconds after the first raindrop hit the pavement. Finally inside the huge, beautiful rotunda, we stood in line for another thirty minutes. Neither of us really minded, though, because we were both in a good mood, looking forward to seeing the exhibits and to our aprs-museum hot dogs from the Nathans Famous cart across the street. Yes, Im aware of what hot dogs are made of, but I dont give a shit because they are delicious.

That day, I was wearing a light wash, knee-length denim skirt Id recently bought from Banana Republic, a t-shirt that said LOVE IS LOVE in big rainbow letters, and a pair of ratty TOMS shoesthe reason I had sore feet. (Cmon, TOM.) I knew for a fact that my look was in style because I saw at least a few ten-year-old girls wearing that exact same outfit earlier in the day when I pushed in front of them at a candy store. My limp blonde hair and my messy make-up, victims of the rain and humidity, gave me a bit of a sewer rat vibe, but I was still feeling cute because I was happy, I was in New York City, and I was with my son. I was comfortable in my skin.

After many minutes and many complicated customers, some of whom had apparently never before entered a museum or talked to another human being, it was finally our turn to approach the ticket desk. Jack and I walked up to the counter and smiled at the older woman, clad just like her co-workers in a crisp blue museum blazer, sitting behind it. Two tickets, please, I said. But before issuing them, she glanced at us and brusquely asked, One Student and one Senior?

Uh, what?

My startled eyes quickly swung over to the sign on the desk that listed the admission prices, and yes, at age fifteen Jack was indeed a student, but what was that other word she said? Was it Seor? Did she think I was a dude? I dont look like an hombre, mostly because I have trouble growing a mustache so... oh my god, maybe she didnt say Seor. Maybe... maybe that wack job said Senior ? DID SHE SAY SENIOR? How the hell could she think Im a Senior? Unless they had a ridiculously low entry point for Seniors? My mind raced and I frantically scanned the sign again, half expecting to see Seniors: 30+ or Seniors: Anyone with a Single Gray Eyebrow Hair, but then in quiet, abject horror I read this instead: Seniors: 60+. My clammy hands grasped the marble counter for support while alarm bells rang in my ears and HOLY SHIT, THIS ASSHOLE THINKS IM SIXTY-PLUS caromed from one side of my brainto the other. Me? Wendi Aarons? Born in 1967? Currently dressed like an unkempt grade schooler? A Senior? Not that theres anything wrong with being a senior, of course, but I wasnt one of them. I was in my early fifties that day. A young-looking early fifties too, I thought, and not just because I was standing near actual fucking fossils at the time. The piece of shit Allosaurus fifteen feet to my left had at least 46 or 47 million years on me. And this ticket pushing, insensitive museum jerk thought I was SIXTY? PLUS ? A few choice words to snap back in reply immediately popped into my head, most of them four letters long, some of them rhyming with moddam brothertrucker, but then I stared at the pricing sign one more time. Slowly, my eyebrows raised, my head tilted to the right, and a soft huh escaped my lips. The senior discount would save me ten dollars. You know what you can buy with ten dollars? Two hot dogs. Maybe even crinkle fries.

A tense moment of silence descended in our corner of the packed museum lobby while I wrestled with the tremendous blow to my ego versus my deep-seated love of saving a few bucks.

Finally, my fugue state ended when my angry teenager hissed, Mom! Just get the tickets. Youre being weird! and the long line of pissed-off people waiting behind us came into focus. No, thank you, I am not a Senior, I grandly declared to the museum employee with as much condescension as a woman holding a wallet containing a Barry Manilow International Fan Club membership card was capable of. Not even close ! I am a REGULAR MUSEUM ADMITTANCE PERSON. I was definitely NOT alive when Kennedy was assassinated by the CIA. So, good day, MADAME. And then I concluded the horrific episode by haughtily jamming my credit card into the machine the wrong way while it angrily beeped and my son and the ticket seller rolled their eyes.

And that whole scene is middle age in a nutshellhumbling, undignified, and insulting, but also surprisingly full of perks you didnt know were in the mix. What a rush.

Right now, Im at the crossroads of old and young. As my friend Nancy, creator of the Midlife Mixtape podcast, says, Im in the years between being hip and breaking one. And you know what? I kind of love it. Not all of it because there are some not great things about agingmostly ego-related so farbut Im delighted that Im finally growing into the person Ive always wanted to be. Smart, savvy, well-traveled. Funny, interesting, confident. I have a close circle of friends, a nice house, some professional success, and enough retirement savings that I probably wont ever have to get a job greeting people at Walmart, which is a big relief because Ive never been able to pull off a vest. (I always look like a divorced dad from the Seventies.) Ive also raised two happy and well-adjusted sons, three less well-adjusted cats, and a neurotic poodle, and I still deeply love the man I married in 1992 except whenever hes chewing. And, despite spending 90 percent of their time on cruises to the Panama Canal, my two elderly and loving parents are healthy and supportive. My life is good. I just wish it wasnt almost over.