Bringing a blanket to the movies doesn't mean you're old...just cold

Society has been subtly acknowledging my age lately and as you would expect, I am less than delighted. Several months ago, I sat, distorted and blinded following my eye appointment, because my demented optometrist felt the need to dilate both mine and my daughter's pupils. Blinking like little owls, we waited for sight to return. Sydney rebounded fairly quickly while I resembled a vampire for another forty minutes. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," commiserated the vision specialist, "Eyes tend to do that after age forty." What? Excuse me? My eyesight has been consistently stable since I slapped on my horn-rimmed spectacles in 4th grade. "Tie a rope around her waist when hiking in the woods," one eye doctor advised my husband over a decade ago, "if she loses those glasses, she'll never find her way out." Do all optometrists receive the same sensitivity training?

Today, to escape the oppressive heat, I made plans to attend an afternoon matinee with some friends. As we prepared to depart, I asked to borrow a jacket or sweatshirt. "You are aware that it's 95 degrees outside," Evie said questioningly, handing me a hoodie. "I get cold in the theatre," I responded defensively, wishing that I was brave enough to ask for a blanket. When I was a kid, family friends would visit, lugging in a giant bag filled with slippers (I'm not even going to mention that they were hand-crocheted). It took twenty years for me to recognize the genius of this little maneuver. I now obsess over the comfy quality of my own slippers and uninhibitedly tote them from place to place.

Hoodie in hand, the smell of movie popcorn tantalizingly close, I approached the ticket counter. "Admission for The Heat," the manager said, already punching buttons on his obnoxious little computer. "How do you know I want to see that particular movie," I asked, baffled. He raised an arrogant eyebrow at me. "Did you profile me," I said indignantly. "I might have very well wanted to see Despicable Me II or maybe I wanted to see The Conjuring!" He paused, eyebrow lost along his silver-crested hairline, "So...what do you want to see?" Shamefaced, I mustered enough dignity to quietly hiss, "The Heat, please." As I sat among a quarter-filled theatre populated mostly with middle-aged women (and one creepy guy), I fumed for two hours, watching two middle-aged women actors (who look infinitely better than me and are in much better shape), wishing I had a hand-crocheted blanket and my slippers.

As the credits rolled, I carefully considered the life lesson imparted to me by Sandra Bullock and Melissa McCarthy. If I want to regain a cutting-edge cool aura, I need to change into a black t-shirt and significantly increase my f-word usage. I stomped up the aisle and stormed by the theatre manager as he held the door open for me like I was a doddling old fool. "I will not be typecast," I informed him, "I do not conform to a stereotype."  "Of course, of course," he agreed patronizingly, before asking, "Did you enjoy the movie?" Shamefaced, I mustered enough dignity to whisper, "Yes," before scurrying out the door. Passing a coming attractions poster highlighting the riveting work of Ashton Kutcher, I rallied one more time. "That looks like a delightful movie," I said loudly, wincing as the movie manager nodded knowingly. Dang! I forgot that forty-year-old chicks dig Ashton Kutcher (Isn't it cute how I categorize myself among the ranks of Sandra Bullock, Melissa McCarthy and Demi Moore?). I left that movie theatre with a renewed perspective. I WILL NOT bow to society's expectations of the interests, activities, and supposed limitations of the forty-and-over set. Maybe I'll learn something new. Crocheting sounds fun. Meanwhile, society can just mind its own (f-ing) business.