Lost Boys and Kittys

What is it with some people and age?!! This month, as I celebrate birthdays galore, aging and how people handle it has become a common topic for discussion. Some of my circle are having landmark birthdays with big celebrations. Others, like me, will mark our special day with the usual dinners or pints out, some cake and ice cream, annual well wishes and a reminder of how lucky we are to be loved and another year older. I’m an embrace your age kind of person; an own your number kinda gal. I would never lie about my age, I’m proud of it. While I fully subscribe to the notion that age is merely a state of mind, there are limits.

Exhibit A – The Lost Boy

Recently, I have spent some problematic time around a man who has failed to grow up. Chronologically past 40, this guy resolutely behaves like he’s somewhere in the early 20 range. It’s obvious from the whining he’s subjected many of us in the office to that his was a sheltered and rather boring teen age. He didn’t go to college or university and thereby likely missed some of the inherent experiences that mark one's move from trouble seeking adolescent to responsible adult. Making up for these rites of passage now, he fails to understand that by the time you are over 40, with a life full of responsibilities which include a newborn child, a job, parents who need assistance in their aging years, all night binges that render you useless the next day seem rather self indulgent. His griping about the arguments had with ‘the wife’ over his desire to spend a chunk of his paycheck on a weekend in Vegas as opposed to stuff for the house garners little support for anyone in his situation, except ‘the wife’, who has to put up with his shit. Every time, I am in his presence all I can think of is that seen from Moonstruck where Cher slaps Nicholas Cage in the face. “Snap outta it!” I feel like yelling at him.

Exhibit B – Hello Kitty

Walking Murphy each morning I pass the usual set of characters each day. I live in one of the more affluent parts of Toronto, having moved to my place more for it's proximity to the hospital I was working at than any financial compatibility with my neighbours. What I like about the area is it's lovely old houses, wide and abundantly treed streets and a main drag which boasts an excellent selection of places to get coffee, bookstores and restaurants. What I hate is the sense of privilege that radiates from some of the more conservative folk. In amongst all that, are the weirdly tacky residents of the neighbourhood.

The female counterpart to my overgrown teenage work colleague is a group of women I call the Hello Kittys. This morning I ran into one such feline. 50ish and dressed head to toe in designer, tween inspired, fuchsia and purple walking gear, sporting unseasonable lavender earmuffs on this mild and muddy morning I could hardly miss her as she approached. Ms. Kitty and her pink leashed white fluff ball bounded towards Murph and me, all atwitter and perky. Little girl falsetto calling out to Sparky to stay out of the muck, (like that’s possible on a March day in Toronto), Ms. Kitty stopped to chat as our dogs sniffed at one another. Murphy, being his usual social self, stopped for a bit of play and I was stuck making pleasantries. Up close, I noted that although the coral lipstick (who wears makeup walking the dog at 7:15am???) didn’t quite match the pink of her jumpsuit it certainly showed off the tan she had from an obvious recent trip down south. With absolutely nothing in common to make small talk about, I commented on the milder weather (yes, the bitch made me break my New Year’s resolution) and bid her a good walk. It was only on turning around to tug Murph along our way that I caught a glimpse of her from behind. Blazoned on her saggy rear, book-ended by hearts, was the word JUICY.

It’s not lost on me that some of these youthful types may have the last laugh. For steamed as I am at having to cover for my colleague, he nonetheless got his day off nursing his hangover while playing Warcraft in his basement. As for Ms. Kitty, I ain't got nothing. For while I may admire her disregard of all societal conventions governing fashion for the middle aged, on a morning such as this, try as I might, I cannot envision for a second a universe where I would cover my arse with anything other than a perfectly fitting pair of jeans. A juicy ass? Maybe not. But neither was it fuchsia.