Stuck in the middle with me

I wheel through the doors of Bi Lo and come to an abrupt halt at the first little roundabout. Donuts!  

I’m fondling a box of Krispy Kreme cream-filled donuts when a shrill voice screams "BINGO," scaring the bejesus out of me!

I circle the little deli area to peer through the cheese kiosk’s grape and cracker display. An anxious elderly lot are there, poised and ready to blot out "G25" on their cards with their multi-colored Bingo markers.  

I began to wonder what my senior game will be. Although I like Bingo, it probably won’t be my game of choice as I gather with my 50 shades of gray-haired friends. I’m thinking I’ll be the little church lady who takes your money at penny poker and has an extra Ace cupped in hand. Or, better yet, I’ll sell Pinterest crafts roadside, maybe even build a tiny house with all the wine corks I have saved. 

As I start scanning my grocery items at the express self check out, the screen prompter asks me if I qualify for a senior citizen discount. I hit "NO," but the screen won’t go away. I give the bored clerk a sideways glance so that he will move me along. He obliges, but with a smirk, and I realize from his “whatever” glance that I am suddenly inbetween eras. Kind of like a Tween, I’m a Tweenior. 

I have choices now. I can be this, or that. I can throw away the AARP mail, but keep the Roper St. Francis House Calls magazine (just for the recipes, of course.) I still want to do exciting things. But, I can make them more adaptable and fun—I can ride up the mountain and zip line down through the trees rather than go on the 3 hour hike up the mountain.

I believe it is the most liberating time in US history to be a middle-aged woman. Yet, I increasingly find that because I CAN choose, I flit back and forth between being the fearless Amelia Earhart and the helpless Charleston damsel who has the vapors, praying for a Rhett Butler to catch me when I swoon. 

Oh yes, I am all over the map.

Commitments and engagements are fine as long as they fall into my cycle of no cycles. I don’t want anyone telling me what to do, yet I seek guidance diligently. My emotions have gone from hair trigger to a 3 day fermentation period. I find that I give less thought to petty BS now than ever before, and rather enjoy sideways glances at my unpredictable responses.

If someone thinks you look like you had a good night, let them. When the cashier’s buzzer goes off because you bought Epsom Salts (apparently a hallucinogenic) just look at them and wink. 

I want my hair to go gray, but I don’t. I want to dance my butt off somewhere, but don’t want that “Bless her heart, Granny can still bust a move” look. I’m too young for shuffleboard, too old for Wii dance.

Perplexing instructions and labels now annoy the hell out of me. For example, "Apply crème to a soft area of your body." That one didn’t take long. Or, "Draw attention from trouble areas of your body by moving a person’s gaze to the good areas." Ok, so I’m down to my knees now, any suggestions for alluring knee attire? Age defying makeup. Can’t I just defy it myself?  And free-roaming eggs? Yes, I put that package back in the cooler. I don’t trust a company who thinks eggs roam free.  

 
Hmmm, I just had a thought. Does that senior citizen discount apply to alcohol? In that case, Limbo is not really such a bad place to be. I find I’m neither here nor there.