Those of you over 30 will know the response to that fun little ditty. Those of you under 30 are most likely not reading this blog, which leads me to my entry of the eve. I happened to find myself with two tired toddlers at a Thousand Oaks Mazda dealership this morning. Giving a good name to female drivers everywhere, I promptly told the technician that I needed the doo- hickey fixed on my engine light-ma-bob. After a quick smirk, I was shuttled over to Enterprise where I would be given the smallest car in the history of time. I'm telling you, Dudley Moore would have to slouch. (Side note: For those of you under 30, you probably wouldn't know who Dudley Moore is either. And, I know a woman who had sex with him back in the 70's. Hi JJ if you're reading this.)
When I first walked in the rent-a-car bungalow, a twenty something girl with acrylic nails and fake tan perused my paperwork, then shrieked, "Oh my God, your name is Andrea? My roommate's name is Andrea!" Wow, the odds. Then Dominic overflooded the Sparklett's water cooler and peed on the floor. On my way to the bathroom, I heard her gush to her fellow Friend's cast members, "Her kids are like, sooooo cute... doesn't she look just like Andrea... I mean, if Andrea were a lot older?"
All humor I was using to diffuse the urnine on the linoleum left my body quicker than a straight man at an Erasure concert. How old do I look? I'm 35, not 75 (sorry, Mom). And not just that, but I thought I looked cute today. I had on my flared sweats, purple tank, chunky black beads (that I got this weekend in Santa Monica, thank you very much for lunch, Megz) and a denim head scarf. Sort of a J.Lo meets Aunt Jemima. It was working. Or so I thought.
When are we officially old? Am I going to be one of those women who my girlfriends and I used to pity when we were single, thinner and full of the ego only the freshness of youth supplies? It seems like yesterday Cecelia and I were having leisurely lunches in the NBC cafeteria. "Oh, look, there's Jay Leno. And oh, shit, there's that VP in the BeBe jeans. Should someone tell her that the drop down waist only works if its accompanied by stripes on your tank top, not stripes from stretch marks - big red arrows screaming to the world, 'Goodbye J Crew... Hello JC Penny!' " (We really had no room to criticize. Our polyester zoot suits were not exactly the epitomy of French couture. And the rainbow peacock on our lapels did nothing to dispell the image that we were girlfriends, not girlfriends. Not that there's anything wrong with that, bla bla bla... )
I know that youth is how you view life, not your age. But sometimes, my ego needs a tune up. Too bad women don't come equipped with warning signs, like in my SUV. Instead of "Check Engine Light" it could say "Wooo, two words sistah: Camel Toe". Like my car at its yearly physical, we could check into a "Keeping it Real" clinic where women of all ages can support us in our endeavors to feel hip, but slap the crap out of us when our delusion gets in the way of good taste.
On a positive note, guess who has a meeting for an assistant editor at the paper she already writes for? 12 hours/week, lots o' perks... Is it fate that just last week I made a plan to start making money and this fell into my lap? I think not.
Gotta run. My "Spend Time With James" light just buzzed.
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