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It’s time to break my silence: I am actually a 70-year-old woman

Hello beloved readers of The Miami Student. After trying and failing to keep up with my young peers during Halloweekend, I have realized that I can no longer pretend to be someone that I’m not — a bright-eyed, energetic and physically adept young adult. Excluding my political takes, I have the mind and body of an elderly woman.

My Halloweekend Friday night got off to a rough start when nobody understood my Halloween costume (I was Fleabag? I thought most people had seen or at least heard of that?), and I didn’t understand most of my friends’ costumes either (how can a pumpkin be “slutty?” It’s a gourd.)

I brought a cigarette as part of my costume. Fleabag always seems to have one in a tote, and so do most 70-year-old women.

When I stepped into the function, unlit cigarette in hand, everyone immediately pounced upon me, some of whom didn’t know each other, intervening in my apparent drug problem. Since when are cigarettes such a big deal? It’s not like there’s studies on them being bad for you.

After flushing my cigarette down the toilet, done with direct eye contact and steady head-shaking, my friends then proceeded to do warm tequila shots. I declined, they called me lame.

Just as I thought the night was winding down, they suggested we head to the bars. It was 11:30 p.m.

 The only place I’m heading to right now is my bed with a cup of warm tea to watch 10 minutes of “Saturday Night Live” before I pass out. What’s wrong with these people? But it’s Halloweekend, I thought. I’ll power through.

Immediate regret washes over my body. It’s smelly and sticky and if one more pair of angel wings bumps into me I’m going to do a reverse of what ringing a bell does in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” 

My friend suggests we “see if there’s any cute boys.” I’m not sure where she expected me to look. No, I don’t want to flirt with these children. I want a man, like Gregory Peck or Captain Von Trappe, thank you very much. 

And whatever happened to good music? What’s with these techno-electro-crypto-mashups people listen to nowadays? Just no.

But what really did me in, what made me realize that it’s time to come clean, was the morning after. I already wake up achy and slightly nauseous without the assistance of alcohol. That morning I thought I must’ve been dragged out of my sleep and pummeled in the head with a rotary phone; there was no other explanation for the pain and agony I felt. I hadn’t felt this bad since Elvis died.

To make matters even worse, my entire morning routine was ruined. I was freezing, my porridge didn’t taste right and I didn’t have the mental sharpness I need to do my crossword puzzle. My head hurt too much to go on my morning stroll, and I didn’t even feel like reading the newspaper.

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It’s time to own up to who I am. I’ve run out of excuses to tell my friends when they ask why I can’t hang out past 10 p.m., or who keeps buying all of this cottage cheese, or why I refuse to pay for Panera because it’s overpriced and Pulley’s grilled cheese is just fine. I’m tired of pretending like I know how to “save as a PDF” or “reset the WiFi,” and I’m fed up with pretending to like Ice Spice or the taste of Fireball.

I’m actually 70 years old. There you have it.

Now please stop using words like “zaddy” and “squishmallow” in my presence. I have literally no idea what you are talking about.

rudere@miamioh.edu


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