“The key to it all lies in being old. Age nullifies any threat that you might act
upon your instincts, but lets women know you have not just inconvenienced them
with your death.”
-Tertiam J. Quidd, p. 974, Are Priests and Other Clergymen Using Viagra to Cure Acne: A Candid Report on Scandals in the Subways
and Religious Institutions Around the World.
Published in 2002 by the Pulaski Institute of Verbal Abundance.
Watching her get dressed and ready to
play her part in the world is like watching all the pieces of thirty thousand
years of evolution being fit together before my eyes. In a single progression of
all that has been passed down and perfected by women from the time they first
huddled cold and naked near the warmth of fire, through their provocative, self-assured
settling into a seat at the head of the board room conference table in one of
Wall Street’s most profitable new technology corporations, their skillful
creativity in the arts of self-presentation has become an exciting new genre
perfect for the pleasures of dirty old men everywhere. Wrapped in a towel more for warmth than for
modesty, she stepped from a steamy shower and moved with the determined look of
one initiating the execution of a simple plan meant to do no more than to fill a
simple, fundamental need. No
nonsense. That, by itself, is not a bad
look. In a matter of seconds she’s
holding the leg and underwear she chooses now more for their qualities of
comfort, yet obviously affording enough in their femininity and style to
provide her the satisfaction of putting on something very today and something still
very much pretty. I saw her at once both
compelled and reluctant to look into the mirror, knowing she would not find what
she once took so easily for granted, but needing to; and once again realizing
satisfaction as she performed the quick mental calculations that allow for age,
certain non-negotiable habits and what life itself had cost her. The weak ones had already forfeited their
power, allowing husbands, children and the first of the inevitable wrinkles to force
them into surrender. They are the lost
sisters, the ones who never fully understood the potency of even the smallest advantages
made available to women by virtue of gender alone.
Nails polished, painted and prettier
today than the hands that reached across the vanity where her woman-she-tools stood in loose arrangement. She picked up a brush and a small pallet of makeup
whose role has now become more one of concealment than of highlighting. For a second she remembers the thrills of
youthful power; but not with any lingering regret. Today is where she is, and she’s enjoyed the adventure
of getting here. One deep breath is
enough. The eyes, the lips, the hair;
these she attended with purpose and skill.
Clothing that now must leave to the imagination the presence of some of
those naturally occurring, gender specific curves while convincing the eye of the
possible absence of one or two less deliberate arcs that may have been acquired
as a result of her commitment to the philosophical rationalization that a life
well lived is a life lived for the moment; and always at the very moment the
chocolate cheesecake comes around.
A drop of cologne, one more quick glance in the mirror and there
she stands, a living embodiment of beauty, mystique and understated dignity as
she gathers up her purse, her iPhone and walks toward the door the undisputed, sexiest
creature ever created. How could anyone
not admire, not stare transfixed and in awe of her dramaturgical presentation
of life reflected with such confidence and not, now and forever, love her
beyond all else. I could not. Nor would I be fool enough ever to try.
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