Not Ready for Granny Panties--The 11 Commandments for Avoiding Granny Panties. Mary Fran Bontempo
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to do with us. We’re social and marketing pariahs, which is ironic as our entry into “non-youth” is precisely when we have both the time and money to indulge in things in which we’ve long been interested but haven’t had an extra moment to explore.
That’s why it’s so important to resist. To link arms with your hot flashing sisters and set fire to the notion that just because we’re a certain age, we’re irrelevant. You don’t have to be relegated to the sidelines of your own life. You don’t have to be ignored. And you don’t have to be forced into Granny Panties, morphing into a real-life version of the cartoon character, Maxine, and grumbling your way through your days. (Although adding some “Maxine Moxie” to your attitude can be a healthy addition to your behavioral repertoire.)
Women stuck in Granny Panties are caught in the rut of always taking care of someone else and believing their best years are behind them. It just isn’t so. At least it doesn’t have to be. Avoiding the dreaded Granny Panties doesn’t take a lot of time or money. It simply takes a willingness to invest in yourself, change your attitude and for God’s sake, throw out any shirt with an animal on it.
But it’s not all about appearance. Ultimately, being “Not Ready For Granny Panties” has little to do with face lifts, tummy tucks or dressing like your teenage daughter. It’s a whole lot easier than that. A few simple adjustments and some commitment to yourself, for a change, will lead you to a whole new world. A world in which every once in a while, you take center stage. Because you deserve it. Because you’ve earned it. And because you in Granny Panties is something no one, especially not you, wants to see.
Being Not Ready For Granny Panties is not about trying to deny your age. It’s about living, to borrow Oprah’s phrase, “your best life” at exactly the age you happen to be. It’s also about not letting that age define you in a negative way. Just because you’re over 50 doesn’t mean you can’t take up surfing. But please don’t wear a bikini while you do it. A little common sense (just a little) makes all the difference between being the kind of woman people look at and say, “I wish I were like her,” as opposed to “Thank God I’m not like her!”
The march of time is inevitable. We’ve always been aware that the years were passing, but it’s not until the fateful day when we see that barely recognizable woman staring back at us from the mirror that we know we’re on the verge of losing ourselves to Granny Panties. Yet the conclusion of time’s forward march—that you will end up feeling beat, bored, miserable and trapped in Granny Panties—is not inevitable by any means.
So come with me and learn a new set of “Commandments.” They aren’t etched anywhere in stone, but they should be. Because if you follow them, you’ll renew yourself, you’ll learn to enjoy your life and most important, you’ll steer clear of Granny Panties, both literally and figuratively.
As for the cranky, old hag in the mirror? With a little work, a little luck and a healthy dose of fun, you may never see her again.
The Players
Me: The occasionally hysterical woman behind this rant against Granny Panties. “I’m mad as Hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore!”
Dave: My frequently bewildered but always indulgent husband, who likely supports me for his own survival, but I’ll take what I can get.
Kids: David, Laura and Megan, my children, occasionally maligned, but much loved. Thanks, kids.
My Mom: Same as above.
Chrysa: My partner in crime, blogging and adventure who regularly talks me down off the ledge (or up onto a ledge, depending on our mood).
Women of the Chorus: Maxine, my cousins, my sister--Karen, Dianna, Kakie, Dorothy Gale, Glinda the Good Witch, Miss Gulch— a.k.a.Elphaba, a.k.a. the Wicked Witch of the West, Oprah, Pat, Carmen, Chris—my b.f.f., my grade school girlfriends, Donna—my best friend from college, my hero, Kathy H., and others. Without these ladies, be they real or fictional, life, and this book, would be impossible (or at least a lot less FUN).
The First Commandment:
Thou Shalt “Fuhgeddaboudit”
Tony Soprano was no dope.
A thug, morally reprehensible, perhaps, but not a stooge. For Tony was capable of dispensing priceless advice in a word—“Fuhgeddaboudit.”
(Okay, so it’s really “Forget About It,” but if Tony says it’s “Fuhgeddaboudit,” I’m not going to correct him.)
Truth be told, that one word (or three, but who’s counting?) speaks volumes. Of course, when Tony said it, he was usually advising some guy to forget something he’d witnessed, for the guy’s own health and well-being. “Fuhgeddaboudit” or something pretty bad is probably going to happen, at least in Tony’s world.
But Tony was on to something, something we women would do well to remember—or forget, that is.
We spend countless hours of our lives trying to remember stuff. Where we have to go, what we have to do, who we have to get where. We remember who said what to whom, when it was said (especially if we’re talking to our spouses and the statement in question was made twenty years ago) and the vocal inflection with which it was said. (How many times have you said, “What’s THAT supposed to mean?” to a seemingly innocuous statement made by a spouse who immediately regrets opening his mouth?)
We keep mental lists which expand exponentially on a daily basis. And invariably, we forget something—or someone. Ever leave a kid at the orthodontist because you forgot to pick him up after dropping off his sister at her piano lesson, stopping at the bank and fetching the dry cleaning? Come on; you know you did.
Try as we might, we just can’t remember it all. Which is the point. We’re never going to remember everything; it’s useless to even try. (Except for the kid, of course. But he’d find his way home eventually.) Trying mightily and forgetting anyway just sets us up for failure, and really, haven’t you had enough of that?
As we get older, Mother Nature tries to drive home the point that attempts to remember everything are futile by stripping our minds like a field for planting—a field on which nothing is growing, that is. In the last week, how often have you walked into the next room with purpose and direction only to forget why you went in there in the first place? Was it once? Twice? Ten times? Or have you forgotten that, too?
Make no mistake; forgetting is the natural order of things. You, at one time or another, are going to forget your middle name, your best friend’s phone number and the fact that your youngest child hates tomatoes. You will also forget a plethora of other stuff.
And you know what? It doesn’t matter. Because while your kid will register shock and horror that you no longer have the complete itemized list of her likes and dislikes committed to memory as you did when she was small, she is now old enough to remind you that she hates tomatoes. Even better, she’s old enough to make her own vegetable for dinner. Further, how important is a middle name, anyway? And check your phone; your girlfriend’s number is in there. (If you forget how to look up your contacts, ask the kid who hates the tomatoes. If she’s still speaking to you, that is.)
The worst part of all of this forced memorization is that what it also forces you into is a gigantic pair of Granny Panties. Trying to hold onto everything for everyone makes us cranky, miserable and it robs us of time—for ourselves. When you get right down to it, probably ninety percent of what we’re trying so desperately to hold onto doesn’t mean a thing. So instead of looking at nature’s gradual elimination of totally inconsequential information from your head as a sign that the end is near, see it as a passport to personal freedom.
Do you know when your computer crashes and that little message comes up advising you that a memory dump is commencing? Embrace the dump. If your mind is divesting itself of some of its contents, go with it. Let go of anything that’s painful, old news or simply not important.
If