what is it?
That strange little wrinkle on the side of my nose. What is that? Where did it come from? Forty-nine now and I'm expecting changes. But what the hell is that thing? It's not there now, right now. Vanishing ghost wrinkle. Wish the rest of these would clear out.
I am nearing the age of invisibility. As it stands today, I still get flirty glances and some open invitations from men of all ages. For how much longer? I had enough of . . . well, of all of that which precedes a happy marriage and was the result of rampant popularity and a lot of time in bars. (A lot of time, real popular. What fun.) But it's the flirting I love and the flirting I will miss.
It's a lost art, this flirty thing. A southern man will flirt himself silly, even into his dotage. Southern women, too. It's the Yankees and the midwesterners and the oh-so-earnest left coasters who seem to have abandoned the art. Then again, who can flirt when everyone's wrapped up with a cell phone, diddling around on a Blackberry, essentially limiting human interaction to the point we may as well all be confined to little pods to protect ourselves from any chance contact with real live breathing flirting laughing human beings.
Reading Gone With the Wind at age eight, I had no truck with the mealy-mouthed and unbearably dull behavior of the insipid Miss Melly. It was Scarlett's feisty attitude and her smart mouth and her enchanting ways I wanted. Of course Miss Melly was a paragon of virtue, utterly boring and oh so good. But who would choose virtue in the face of Scarlett's kickass good times and her whore-red velvet dress and her rough and rugged jet-haired Rhett? That Scarlett didn't know she was having a good time is beside the point. Scarlett lived out loud, all over the place. She was a quintessential flirt and a tramp and a hussy.
At 49, I still want to be Scarlett more than I want to be Miss Melly. I am still feisty, still a smart mouth, and I enchant myself at times. If others are enchanted as well, all the better. I will flirt 'til I die and I hope at 80 I still have a whore red velvet dress and a rough a rugged geezer to flirt right back. I just want to be alive, all the way to the end, and I never want to succumb to convention and the external forces to "do the right thing." My bad girl is alive and well, living inside this solid citizen. I'll keep her, thank you. Even with the wrinkle. But I would like to know what the hell it is.
I am nearing the age of invisibility. As it stands today, I still get flirty glances and some open invitations from men of all ages. For how much longer? I had enough of . . . well, of all of that which precedes a happy marriage and was the result of rampant popularity and a lot of time in bars. (A lot of time, real popular. What fun.) But it's the flirting I love and the flirting I will miss.
It's a lost art, this flirty thing. A southern man will flirt himself silly, even into his dotage. Southern women, too. It's the Yankees and the midwesterners and the oh-so-earnest left coasters who seem to have abandoned the art. Then again, who can flirt when everyone's wrapped up with a cell phone, diddling around on a Blackberry, essentially limiting human interaction to the point we may as well all be confined to little pods to protect ourselves from any chance contact with real live breathing flirting laughing human beings.
Reading Gone With the Wind at age eight, I had no truck with the mealy-mouthed and unbearably dull behavior of the insipid Miss Melly. It was Scarlett's feisty attitude and her smart mouth and her enchanting ways I wanted. Of course Miss Melly was a paragon of virtue, utterly boring and oh so good. But who would choose virtue in the face of Scarlett's kickass good times and her whore-red velvet dress and her rough and rugged jet-haired Rhett? That Scarlett didn't know she was having a good time is beside the point. Scarlett lived out loud, all over the place. She was a quintessential flirt and a tramp and a hussy.
At 49, I still want to be Scarlett more than I want to be Miss Melly. I am still feisty, still a smart mouth, and I enchant myself at times. If others are enchanted as well, all the better. I will flirt 'til I die and I hope at 80 I still have a whore red velvet dress and a rough a rugged geezer to flirt right back. I just want to be alive, all the way to the end, and I never want to succumb to convention and the external forces to "do the right thing." My bad girl is alive and well, living inside this solid citizen. I'll keep her, thank you. Even with the wrinkle. But I would like to know what the hell it is.
posted by BigAssBelle at 8:38 PM
5 Comments:
I sure love this post - for all kinds of reasons! Great observations.
Amen sister. Being a cold weather midwesterner, I have mastered the blunt art of scandalous behavior, but not the finesse of a bonafide flirt. I was always a bit on the shy side, with me you got all or nothing. When I decide what or who I want, subtlety flies right out the window. Have you any pointers for a wanna be flirt? As for the little line that was there and gone, that's called a mark of character. I'm starting to get a lot of character myself. Wear it proudly, and may the Melly's shrink away to oblivian!
I occasionally get creeped out when I spot one more wrinkle or piece of evidence that the old skin tone isn't what it used to be, then I forget about it, because I am easily distracted. Honest honey, I have a couple of aunts and great aunts that were hell raisers well into a time of their lives when they were suppose to be sitting around tatting and doting over grandkids. Go for it girl!
You are still a baby. You go on with your bad self. Flirt to your heart's content. I only wish others were the same way. I could use a little more of that myself.
Right there with you, girl! Pulled thoughts right out of my head. I was overseas for a lot of years, between divorce and my current abode in the Pacific Northwest. Damn were those good years. I feel my flirtatiousness going the way of daylight and sunshine, here in the northern latitudes. (not to mention a possible link to my own current BigAssedness, which I'm pretty sure is inversely [perversely?] proportionate to the hours of daylight here.)
For how long, indeed. >sigh<
Cheers to you...
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