Nothing to See Here…

The transformation has begun.

In most families, grown women seem to worry about that inevitable “you’re turning into your mother” thing. It may well be their greatest fear.

In my family, it’s the turning into GRANDMA (god rest her crabby soul) thing. All our lives, my mother has told my sisters and me “You girls better tell me if I start acting like that!” We tell her. She doesn’t care - she is too far gone. The hopelessness of it all has me deeply depressed.

Tonight, however, was the first night I realized it had begun to happen to ME.

As I mentioned in my last post, I went to see Phantom of the Opera tonight. It was my first time. I went with a friend. It was WONDERFUL. As the suspense built, I found myself on the edge of my seat. Nuttin’ odd about that, right? But get this — I looked down and I was CLUTCHING MY PURSE LIKE A SUBURBAN WHITE WOMAN FROM DULUTH RIDING ON THE NEW YORK SUBWAY AT MIDNIGHT! I was in defensive mode over my freaking purse. Now, you must understand - I consider myself a casual toss-it-over-the-chair kind of person. I don’t guard my purse like a fucking pit bull! That’s sooooooo not me!

I was horrified. Horrified, I tell you. As soon as I realized it, you might have thought the leather turned to pure acid (and not the GOOD kind, either). I was so unnerved by it all that I practically threw the thing at the man in front of me. Here, I said, have it. I even gave him my pin number.

Some people have angels and devils on their shoulders. I just have Grandma. She admonishes me for buying strawberries out of season. She’s still not over the fact that I couldn’t wear the veil of virginity when I got married. She is absolutely shocked I don’t shop with coupons and that I won’t take the time to bend over and pick up a penny on the sidewalk. And, evidently, tonight she figured out how to take possession of my being and cause me to sit there like an uptight old lady worried that thieves might somehow wrestle my purse from me and I’d be stuck in the middle of Times Square in New York City without my little folding plastic rain bonnet.

The man wanted nothing to do with my purse (and, at that point, I think he was a little scared of me, too). He quietly slipped the purse on the seat next to me.

I didn’t care - I was watching the show. I flipped my hair back casually and lamented on Christine’s choice. Purse-schmurse - the Phantom was demanding her answer! Her true love’s LIFE hung in the balance! I was SO into the show that I didn’t even notice when my left hand moved over to the next seat and ever so gently (like a 14 year old boy on a first date who’d spent weeks practicing his technique) landed just on the back side of the leather, almost hovering, barely touching. Not clutching. Just flirting with that first touch.

If I’m lucky… if I’m ever-vigilant, I think that the old-lady-handbag-clutching might be forestalled for a few more decades. And it’s a good thing, too. I’ll need to devote all the time I can get to arranging my can goods in descending order of price paid with a secondary sort on date purchased.

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