Why no, unctuous hostess seating people for the breakfast buffet, as a matter of fact I would NOT like you to “double check” whether I’m entitled for the senior discount. Ugh. That was a sock in the gut that was still making it difficult to swallow my coffee when it arrived a few minutes later.
What is wrong with people? I try to remember that she is a career hostess for a breakfast buffet in a moderately swanky (but let’s face it, mostly tacky) casino in Reno, Nevada. I try to remember that she is young, and from another country, and maybe English isn’t her first language. I can acquit her of malice, but the jury’s still out on thoughtlessness. I know she meant nothing more than to possibly save me a few dollars, which would free them up for tips (tip big!), or a blackjack bet (double down!) or a pack of the cigarettes everyone smokes around here (inside! kill me now!) without cease.
Coming as it did on the heels of yesterday’s massive crippling wave of insecurity triggered by ALL THE BATHROOM MIRRORS and ALL THE FLUORESCENT LIGHTS, it was a blow, not gonna lie.
I’m 52 and, now that my ex has finally loosened the death-grip of his denial, I am a single woman. <cue angel choir> The good news outweighs the bad in this situation by a factor of ten. I’m finally in charge of myself, I’m not responsible for another adult, I don’t owe money, I even have some in the bank. The din is diminishing, the chaos is beginning to subside. I can stretch out in the middle of my new queen bed. I don’t have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach when I turn into my driveway, I don’t dread coming home, wondering what I will be walking into. I don’t sit in the car, gathering my mental strength to go inside, rehearsing what I will say, and what I will not (be allowed to) say.
I’m alone and loving it. It is an indescribable relief. I am overwhelmed with gratitude.
But but but I’m 52 years old. Ain’t that bitch? 1, 3, 5, 7, because I can’t even with the aging right now. Apparently you don’t have to pay as much for things after you reach a certain age, and you can’t eat as much food, so your portions are smaller on purpose, and you need to eat it sooner in the day, because obviously you need to be in bed by 8:00 in order to get up the next day and take six hundred naps.
WTAF is going on here, anyway? 52, you say? That’s nothing. It’s the new forty. Fantastic. But I’m nineteen. Twenty-seven. Thirty-five, tops. How can this bimbo (there I said it) possibly mistake me for someone older than that? So I didn’t wear makeup to breakfast. I wonder what she looks like without those eyebrows.
Shenanigans have been called. As far as the cataracts can see. With my early bird senior discount. And stay off my lawn.
If it's any consolation, I think of you as a BILF. The B is for blogger.
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