No place for sissies 

By Nancy Ford 

Recently, I have had to come to terms with a reality that I’ve been avoiding. It’s something I’ve been in denial about for some time now, an eventuality I’ve considered anathema since I was a sweet, young thing. 

The truth is, I am old. If you have been reading this column with any kind of regularity over the past 36 years (thank you), you already know that. 

A variety of age-oriented eye-poppers reminding me of this undeniable fact have popped up recently. One is the realization of how very, very much I enjoy my tea. I love my tea. I mean, I love my tea. Black, green, Lipton, hot iced, sweet, juicy — doesn’t matter. I love my tea. I take supreme pleasure in mixing different bags, sometimes cutting my English Breakfast with decaffeinated Constant Comment to smooth that mind-frying effect that mainline orange pekoe has on me now. Yes, it’s a party. 

Another clanging elder alarm: I watch the Weather Channel’s Locals On The 8s like it was a sacrament. Please don’t talk to me while I’m all up in the Doppler.  

Truth be told, the most jarring ‘Face it, Nancy, you are old’ incident occurred a few years ago in a conversation with a young man who was in the audience at one of my comedy shows. Admitting he didn’t quite understand some my more obscure, historical references, he nonetheless wanted me to know that he loved my jokes and songs and stories. I’d connected! 

“Have you ever heard of The L Word, on cable?” he asked me gently, like he imagined my home media center consisting of a Victrola and maybe a 13” General Electric black-and-white TV set with a rabbit ears antenna. 

“Honeyboy, I am The L Word,” a voice tittered inside my head, recalling the now-defunct Showtime series that too often mirrored the lives of my friends and me. You remember — it was like Queer As Folk, except the characters were butcher. 

“Yes, I watch The L Word. Great show!” my lesbian-Maude responded out loud to this gay-Harold. 

“Well, Showtime ought to do a show like that, but with old lesbians,” the young man continued enthusiastically. “You’d be great in it!” 

“Thanks, that would be fun!” I said, accepting his intended compliment while smiling that special smile. You know the smile. It’s the distinct smile we all reserve to signal loved ones that it’s time to leave an insufferable party or overcrowded family gathering before things get ugly. 

Granted, my sensitivity may be a bit elevated; I’m about to celebrate a significant birthday — my last, I tease both publicly and privately. Make no mistake, I hope my birthdays continue, as I am quick to clarify to horrified, superstitious loved ones. But starting this year, I’m not doing the math. 

It’s a lot of math to do: I’m about to turn 70. How in the actual hell did that happen? 

Thing is, aside from the occasional catch in the knee and some minor vision issues, this getting older business isn’t awful. In fact, it’s mostly just fine.  

After all, Dolly Parton is 78 and doesn’t seem like her age bothers her that much. Head to head, I’d pick Dolly to back me up in a girl fight against Katy Perry, Gaga and Taylor Swift combined. Dolly don’t play. 

Diana Keaton is also 78. She has two movies coming out this year. Boom. 

Violet-haired U.S. Representative Rosa DeLauro (D-Ct.) is 81. Her speeches make far more sense than anything Trump has said in 40 years. 

And Jane Fonda is 86. Have you seen Jane Fonda lately? Sure, sure — Jane likely has her team of cosmetic surgeons on speed dial. So what? Good for her. She’s still kicking and kicking hard, trying to save the planet. 

Old is fine. 

Are there some aspects of my age I would change if I could? Of course. I could use more serenity and control in my life, but who couldn’t? And the fact that that statement sounds like a commercial for adult diapers does bother me a little, but not too much. 

I am an old lesbian. Yup. I’m good with that. Old ain’t what it used to be. So pass me that IHOP seniors’ menu. Mama’s still feeling fresh and fruity. 

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