The Creep Years

I never fully recognized until recently how much of my life has been consumed by a desperate love to flirt. Or maybe I should say, I didn’t realize how much I relied on the instant cosmic endorphins of a good, reciprocated flirt.

Until I got old. And it became creepy…

I never even really thought of myself as a persistent or perpetual flirt.

Friendly and sociable in front of cute men, sure, but not the self produced booby cleavage, bordering on nipple baring, midriff shirt wearing, type of sexual-ness most sexy women excel at.

This may be partly due to the awkward nature of my god given, scoliosis ridden, body, or the concealment of my true desires to be seductive, based on a childhood developed fear. Maybe as up and coming teenage girls we start to realize the power we have and some confidently lean fully into it, while others shyly still aspire for the attention, while simultaneously secluding themselves from the possibility of possible negative outcomes it withholds.

Being that I never fully trusted in the power of my body language, I have mostly relied solely on eye contact and at times slightly forced abundant smiles to portray my delightful, borderline desperate at times, male attention seeking interest. I have also routinely, habitually, and rather pleasantly, disguised my overly sexual nature by my inherent, comfort driven need to consistently dress like an effeminate teenage boy.

But now with the seemingly cruel passing of time, and my unavoidable entrance into the last long distance marathon of life, whose ending’s only reward includes that of the already, only slightly above average, physically dazzling demise- my once lengthy, long-ful gazing power has been maturely stripped away from me, one wrinkle at a time. I now realize how much my precarious, unstable ego, fed on that instant prolonged contact when a stranger I adored would hold my glance till I looked away first. If I was really feeling confident I’d maybe make a silly remark just to enhance the inevitable fleeting moment and somewhat selfish attempt to evoke a laugh that he would for sure give me, whether genuine or not, but either way, an attempt at engagement, leaving me with a feeling of contentment at being noticed, because I’ve never been an actual beauty, but always had enough potential to be worth “at least a slice a pizza!” That line comes from my young single years spent living in New York City. Now I’m old. Fifties old. OLD. The only recognition I get with a random Hello! to a stranger is a look of HUH? Is she crazy? Lonely? Does she need directions?

After that run on sentence paragraph you are probably thinking this article should have been titled “Too Many Commas.”

I write this not out of pity, but to say- I sometimes still find myself reverting back to my younger, smoother skin way of flirting, and quickly, momentarily slipping back to the belief I still resemble my younger self, only to promptly and often embarrassingly realize, NO. You are fifty. Whatever that Goodwill bought, Forever 21 dress does to temporarily deceive you…

What was once a cute flirt to a thirty- forty something year old male is now creepy.

I write how I think, and right now I am thinking, “What time does the bar close at the neighborhood Senior Center? And are the men out there turned on by overhead knee wrinklage?”

Of all places to get wrinkles who woulda thought above the knee cap would be a number one contender? How are my knees a bigger indicator of age than my face?

Knees and hands. The unforeseen indicators of a well lived life!!

I I were a Palm/ Knee reader I’d say- Thank you God that I made it this far!!