“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.
