On Being a Trophy Wife

            “I can’t marry you.  I’ll be ready to talk later,” I type in an instant message.  I love him, of course, but this would be a second marriage for both of us.  He comes with baggage.  He comes with children, an ex-wife, old habits and traditions.  He comes with a grandchild.  If I marry him, I will be a grandmother.  I can’t possibly be a grandmother.  I’m young, and active, and young, and healthy, and young.  Much too young to be someone’s grandmother. 

            “Please talk to me.  I love you,” the computer screen says when I return to my desk.  I don’t know if I can talk about it.  It doesn’t make sense when I say it.  I love his granddaughter.  She is one year old, adorable with chocolate brown eyes and dark curls.  Of course I want her to be part of my family.  I just don’t want to be a grandmother.

            He is much older than I.  He is old enough to be a grandfather.  He wants to be a grandfather.  I am ready to flee a promising relationship because I hate the word grandmother. 

I am not like them.  They are old people, with gray hair and canes and rocking chairs.  Their teeth fall out, and they have to get beautiful, new, pretend teeth that they leave in glasses on the nightstand, ready to scare unsuspecting children who come to visit unexpectedly.  They wear bifocals and hearing aids and still can’t see or hear.  They take handfuls of pills to keep their internal organs functioning.  Their hair thins.  Their skin wrinkles.  They use weird old figures of speech and don’t understand anything kids say nowadays.

            I am much too cool to be that woman.

            “I can’t be a grandmother.  I’m not ready for that,” I send.

            “But you love Kylie,” he responds.

            “That’s not the point!”

            Let’s not forget that I would be married to a grandfather.  They are old people, too.  They have aching backs and stiff knees.  They are grumpy.  They have hair growing from their noses and ears, and no hair growing from their heads.  They have heart disease and erectile dysfunction.  They groan when they sit down, and groan when they stand up again.  Their belts are too high, their ties are too short, and dark socks never go well with sandals. 

            I am much too cool to be married to that man.

            “Then what is the point, exactly,” he asks.  It’s a reasonable question. 

            Grandmothers bake cookies and bread; I collect Batman art.  They wear velour jogging suits; I wear high heels and dark wash denim.  They wear bright lipstick that bleeds into the wrinkles around their lips; I wear black eyeliner in carefully drawn cat-eye lines.  They complain about the price of gas these days and remember when gas was less than a dollar per gallon; I—okay, I do that, too. 

            “The point,” I pound on the keyboard, “is that I don’t want to be old.”

            “Being my wife won’t make you old.  You aren’t making much sense,” appears almost immediately on my screen.

            Grandmothers read stories to small children; I like children’s literature.  They allow ice cream before dinner; I like ice cream before dinner.  They are indulgent with their grandchildren and reprimand their own children for being too hard on the youngest generation; I can learn to do that.  They wear large diamonds before six o’clock, drive comfortable cars, own fur coats, and eat dark chocolate; I can love to do that. 

            “I know that.”  He’s right, I’m not making sense.  “But I’m scared.”

            That is the answer.  I didn’t know it until I typed it.  I’m scared.  I’m scared of the secret my hair colorist keeps for me.  I’m scared of the fine lines appearing around my eyes.  I’m scared of turning into my mother, hearing her words and attitudes in my voice, seeing her hands resting on my keyboard.  I’m scared of wearing purple with red hats and other things that do not go and do not suit me (Joseph).  I’m scared of losing my memory and my mobility.  I’m scared of getting older.

            “Scared?  What are you afraid of?”  He is puzzled.

            “Being a grandmother.  Being old.”

            “I’m coming over.  You’re being silly.”

            He does, and we talk, and we think of a hundred things she can call me that aren’t grandmother.  And I remember that I love her, and I love him.  It’s not so scary after all.

            When she is two, she chooses to call me Grandma Les.  I love it.

Joseph, Jenny. "When I Am an Old Woman, I Shall Wear Purple." Martz, Sandra. When I Am An Old Woman, I Shall Wear Purple. Watsonville, California: Papier MacHe Press, 1991.