I think

I’m the oldest

1st-Grade Mommy

at the M & Ms’ school.

 

 

While my closet contains ‘fashions’ from the likes of  trendsetters Briggs, Sag Harbor, Alfred Dunner and Lee (the ONLY brand that successfully and moderately-comfortably accommodates my fat ass and cooling-tower thighs), the hot mamas’ closets hold skimpy little items from Forever21 and Hot Topic.   

 

 

 

MILF material, I am not! 

 

 

 

Boniva poster-bovine

 is more like it.

 

 

 

Though I have never had an ensemble that could be considered ‘in style’ at the moment (or in that DECADE), I do have a sense of my own style — we’ll call it ‘eclectic‘ as there is no fitting English term.   At my age and body-fat ratio, I lean toward my my ‘fat jeans’ (straight-leg with adjustable waistband,  thank you), and a big, hidey-all, knee-length sweater (all from the thrift store — $4.00 TOTAL).  I’d rather have the ankle-length knit frock, but my chunky boots’d get all tangled up in it as I was kickin’ my own arse for lettin’ it grow the size o’ the tri-state area.

 

 

However, I must admit that

even if I were a ‘younger mommy’,

STILL,

The Viv would have no fashion sense,

 whatsoever. 

 

 

 

 

Basically,

 my fashion sense

boils down to the fact that

 

 

 I just don’t give a shit.

(a BENEFIT of old age)

 

 

 

I’m not afraid to grow old —

or to LOOK old.

 

 

 

 

Hell, I’m 40! 

I SHOULD look like I’m 40!

 

 

 

WRINKLES and GROWING OLD

 worry me NOT.  

 

 

 

 

In fact, I like to call my  ‘frown lines‘ the 

 

 

 BITCH BADGE.

 

 

  

I earned it.

 

 

 

 

  

I’m considering

having my stylist

 

ADD

 GRAY 

 

just to be done with it.

 

 

 

 

I’m seriously looking forward

to a salt’n’pepa do.

 

 

 

I may lament the fact that the  ‘younger mommies’ shop the cool stores, but truth to tell, even if I WERE young, I still wouldn’t nance around in low-rise flares, baring my midriff, showin’ off my taut skin and perky ta-tas.  It’s pretty damn cute on OTHER young gals, but for The Viv,  even had she dressed that way at 21, she would’a looked like nuttin’ but mutton dressed as lamb.

 

 

 

I DO feel sorry for the M & Ms, though.  The ‘younger mommies’ have so much energy.  SassyMama just doesn’t have the git-up-‘n-go that she had back when she was ‘supposed‘ to have popped out the pups.

 

 

 

VIM    +     VIGOR     ≠       VIV

 

 

 

  

My poor kids.  SassyMama simply cannot sit for hours in the bleachers without having crushed-up and snorted some DOANS; she cannot proffer more than 3 entries in round after eye-crossin’ round o’ the ‘Hey, Mommy, Guess What Word I’m Thinking About’ game without entertaining sado-masochistic fantasies;  she needs to wear her $1 magnifiers ON TOP OF her regular glasses in order to to untie the knots in shoelaces, and she’s too CHICKENSHIT to do a spin while ice skating for fear of breakin’ a hip.

 

 

The ‘younger mommies‘ can pretty much do everything they want to with their kids — and not need to sleep with the heating pad for the next week. 

 

 

 

 

The M & Ms

may have been

cheated

a bit,  

but age really

doesn’t bother 

The Viv. 

 

 

 

 

On a recent Uni-Mart piss-quest, upon closing the door to the vile lavatory, the store’s manager looked at my M & Ms and me, clearly sizing us up.  The Dingus had just bought a bottled water, so I felt we had adequately ‘paid’ to purge.  I was about to explain this to the middle-aged, middle-eastern man when he motioned for me to move in the direction of the front register.  He strode up one aisle while the M & Ms and SassyMama took the one beside him.  At a break in the food-barriers, somewhere near the chips  — on my side — (probably those little tree air fresheners and girls-with-big-tiddies lighters on his), he looks over at me, nods at the M & Ms —  and says,

 

 

 

 

“Dese your

 

GRAN-CHIL-REN?”

 

 

 

 

Then, he held out a basket of individually-wrapped hardtack candies to my GRAND children and me (you know the ones:  root beer barrels, butterscotches, Werther’s Originals, etc.,  — EVERY one of the ilk MY grandmother always carried in her pocketbook) and gestured for us to take one.

 

 

The Viv passed.