I desperately wish I could have been a fly on the wall at the bank loan interview. I'm sure the phrase, "Emphasis on Physical Therapy" was over-used in a groundbreaking amount.
There is something harsh and foreboding about becoming older.
I felt the first wave of this cruel fact when I turned 21, suddenly I felt the exhilarating wave of having the world catered to my age demographic with the terrifying premise of this notion suddenly slipping.
Whenever I’m around my Grandma I think about what my Senior Citizen future may be. For instance, at what age are blank sweatshirts with fabric-painted frogs on skis suddenly hip? At what point in my life will I find it absolutely necessary to deck myself out in red, white, blue and marry my passion for patriotism with a ‘fashionable’ flair?
When does the music of someone like Barry Manilow become the Radiohead of the elderly generation?
When do I suddenly find the need to speak only in metaphors and calmly recite, “a penny saved is a penny earned” as if it’s replaced my usual, “What’s up, bro?”
Living in Orange County has given me the opportunity to witness many people who settle within their fears of growing older much like their raised trucks and designer clothing. Thanks to groundbreaking programs like, “The Real Housewives” series we’ve learned as a culture that Mothers and daughters are almost indistinguishable in age thanks to the magic of plastic surgery, but it wasn’t until I recently discovered a business by my house that I felt they may have taken this concept a little too far.
There is a gym for the elderly by my house.
Let me repeat, there is a GRANDMA GYM by my house; and I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout no Curves.
I should preface that for the longest time I thought this business was actually a bank, and I could swear to you that Benjamin Franklin’s face is calmly situated within their shop window as if he’s the national spokesperson.
The entire premise seems like absurdist fodder for an Adam Sandler movie more than anything else.
Young, agile, ageless Sandler is either:
A) The snarky goofball who couldn’t find a better minimum-waged job than being an instructor at said gym where Grandmamas and old curmudgeons of the community unite to either embarrass him or embarrassingly hit on him. Hilarity ensues.
or
B) The young, snarky goofball whose only attachment to family lies with his Grandmother who is a frequent patron of this business, and thus he visits her often – Hilarity ensues.
It’s aptly called, “Nifty after Fifty” and though I haven’t dared walk through its double-doors, I can only imagine what lurks beyond the threshold:
80-year old bitties devouring the gospel of Regis and Kelly on their individual treadmills.
Nanas lifting weights and “spotting” each other while Linda Rondstadt’s greatest hits blare in the background.
And worst of all, (and what truly summarizes my distaste) this introduces the most terrifying concept to be condensed into three words: old lady sweat.
No one likes it.
I’ll say it here: No one is impressed if Grandma can bench press 150 at the Christmas party.
No one wants to see wrinkly old lady abs on their morning walks.
And no one (and I mean no one) wants to see Nana sweat it to the oldies.
And yes, if they took their advertising to the airwaves I’m fairly certain Betty White would be enlisted as their own Valerie Bertinelli.
I’m not saying that Grandmas should descend into the darkness, stripped of their entitlement to looking good and feeling good with the onset of senility. I just think that nature should be acknowledged, bedazzled sweaters to be embraced and the institution of the Grandma to be something sacred, comforting, and nowhere near the likeness of Suzanne Somers.
If we lose our comfy, unconditionally loving Grandmamas, what else do we have left? As a twentysomething I often consider the tried and true archetypes of our culture to be something of comfort as I wander the world bedecked in my own brand of crazy.
I may not have my shit together, but at least in the back of my mind I always know I’m just a phone call and road trip away from eating the best love-filled food of my life, or having an awkward, yet tender conversation about what I’m doing with my life, even though Grandma never understands what any of it means.
This man is only a few weeks away from being another shirtless runner on the Venice Boardwalk. Making you never look the same at a pack of raisins, again.
My name is Julia Prescott, and I never want to hear the term, “G.I.L.F.” ever come into vogue.
