It is my birthday. I am squarely in my mid-fifties. Other than the weird skin and pelt-gray hair, I love getting older, because of the awesome superpowers of the aged.
I have the power of invisibility. As a middle-aged white lady in a champagne Camry, I speed by sheriffs and state troopers with impunity. No one asks to check my bag. Plus, when you’re invisible, you really are just dressing up for yourself. I can wear anything and everything I like whenever I want, and if it’s strange enough to render me visible, then people give me lots of room to shop and work. Upsides abound.
After you’re 50, you don’t even need coupons, only the shameless will to say you lost them. (Thank you, Bed Bath and Beyond.)
I have achieved Freedom from Cool, which means I can sing loud in my car to the Smiths and Bruno Mars. When you have been released from the tyranny of cool, there are no guilty pleasures. They’re all just pleasures.
Freedom from Cool also gives me extra superpowers over children. I can sing along with piped music in a retail setting, and stage whisper personal questions down the hallway of a dressing room. It may not be a death ray, but a mortification ray is terrifying enough to a 14 year old.
This is my call for a new set of Superfriends. The tights will be fleece-lined, the capes will have pockets, and the potions will be grape-based.