By: Ann Brown
Well, no one emailed me about it so I will have to report on the opening session of Freak Lawn 2 without the benefit of observation, hearsay, or fact. I do have at my fingertips, however, the result of my having sat here at my computer for the past, oh, fifteen minutes thinking about what it might have been like.
Well, first, of course, everyone noticed that everyone else looks pretty good for all of us moving up to the big six-oh in the last few years. This is something that I feel has been hugely under-reported in the media, the leap frog journey down the time-line of losing our looks. I think I have some important things to say about it, so here goes:
The ten or so years after high school, people pretty much look the same; it’s not difficult to recognize someone from your high school class unless they specifically had work to change their identity for, say, the witness protection plan. And even then.
At the twenty year reunion, the men look like they are slipping – thinning hair in place of their Hebros (I went to an 80% Jewish high school – it was the coif of the time), corporate suits on their slightly-paunchy bodies where torn jeans and Che tee shirts used to hang; they kinda all look the same, like one conglomeration of a guy. The women at our 20th reunion, however, were bitchen. We were coming into our own, having accepted the stretch marks and the crow’s feet and the power of a good underwire brassiere.
As the 20th reunion moves into the 30th and 40th ones, the playing field kinda evens again.
The men begin to enjoy that weird ass phenomenon of finally growing into their adult look, and pretty much rockin’ it. Women also grow into our adult look, albeit it without the enjoyment. I think at, approximately, age 54, we are even for six hours. Then the men take the lead.
But only for twenty more years because in our 70’s, the men will all be dead. So we win. Especially if we have chosen to go the lesbian route.
I don’t see myself going there, frankly, because I like being able to lie to men about things like, well, everything. Men, as Other, can never fully be certain that we are lying because they do not have uteri and therefore they are acutely aware that they don’t know everything.
I just don’t see how lesbians can lie to each other with shit like, “it’s hormonal; I need an iced venti oassion tea and a Pad See Ew – with tofu -STAT. Or my uterus might fall out.”
Or, “Women are not allowed to clean kitty litter boxes from the time they get their period to the time they are 93. It’s a medical fact. Now please build me a water feature in the backyard before my uterus falls out.”
A lesbian lover would be onto my shit before I had finished moving my shoes into her closet.
Which is why my sister and I have decided that we will live together if we outlive our husbands. We have no secrets, no lies, and nothing about which we disagree other than my reckless use of aluminum foil, a solitary piece of which she has used for eleven years and plans to bring with her when we move in together and use exclusively until she passes, at which point she will bequeath to her daughter.
Sometimes Karen and I get so excited about the prospect of living together that we forget our plan has, at its genesis, the caveat that Craig and Robin will have to die. At the same time. And then we feel bad.
But then we start imagining which furniture is going to go into which room and we are happy again.
And that’s my report on last night’s session.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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