Scary Sixty

By Patti Parish-Kaminski, Publisher

For several years now, folks have consistently used a singular word to describe me.  It’s happened at different times, at different places, by different folks – including my babies – and I’m pretty sure I feel a certain kind of way about it.

My initial response is to instantly negate the qualifier when it comes up.  This response of complete and total denial is typically met with a chuckle, or for those at least attempting to be sweet, the tiniest of smiles.

I simply don’t think of myself in this particular fashion.  Sure, I’m driven, dedicated and unabashedly decisive.  I chalk these up as excellent character traits.  And I am precious, until pushed.  Apparently, it’s when I’m pushed that makes this moniker come into play.  The rub is monikers are typically sweet, like “honey,” “baby,” or “Mr. Kaminski.”  This particular moniker does not drip with honey.  In my humble and typically correct opinion it is not sweet.

I was reminded of this descriptive declaration just the other day when Mr. Kaminski and I went to dinner.  I saw this gigantic monster wielding a massive, spiked club and commented, “Oh my goodness!  That’s awfully scary looking!”

To which Mr. Kaminski chuckled, and promptly replied, “Not half as scary as you honey.”

And there it was. The word.

“You know it annoys me when you describe me as such,” I quickly shot back.  “I am not scary.”

“Whatever you think honey,” was his retort as he continued to chuckle.

I gave him the look, the look that typically stopped my babies in their tracks when they were misbehaving, to which Mr. Kaminski began rattling off scenarios proving his point.  Clearly, he is immune to the look.  I won’t go into detail regarding his walk down memory lane here as his examples were all quite damning to my rebuttal that I am indeed, not scary.

So, I’ve made yet another monumental decision here in my “Birthday Quarter.”  Going forward, I am going to embrace said description.  I’m not even going to try any more.  Scary Sixty is now my mantra, because turning 60 years old is a lot like math: hard, really hard.

At 60, there are just things that I do not care about and will no longer make an effort to avoid, detain or dismiss.  And that, porch sitters, is really, really scary.  And here’s why I’m going with Scary Sixty.

• Women my age have bundles upon bundles of insurance. Inflicting damage, bodily, verbally or vehicular, will not change our lifestyle.
• Women my age put no stock whatsoever in the opinions of anyone under the age of 40. Do not try to shame me for wearing my pajamas to the Quick Stop or for sporting a three-day old messy bun.  It won’t phase me, and you’ll likely get hurt.
• Women my age have an extensive vocabulary and are willing and able to use it for the purposes of a thorough and comprehensive tongue lashing. Likely individuals under a certain age won’t be smart and schooled enough to fully understand said incident, but they will feel the wrath and embarrassment as a crowd enjoys the show.
• Women my age have discarded anything remotely related to spandex, lyrca or pantyhose. As pop cultural taught us in the 1960s, let it all hang out.
• Women my age have deeply rooted, loyal relationships with our girlfriends. At the drop of a hat, we will show up with a tarp, duct tape and shovel – at any hour of the night – no questions asked.
• Women my age have significant bank accounts adequate to retain legal counsel at a moment’s notice – and attorneys specializing in all fields in our phones.
• Women my age drink, buy, go, do, say whatever they want. That in and of itself should instill a fear like no other.

Yep, I’m just going to embrace the scariness going forward.  After all, my give a damn broke at 50.  Let’s just see how not worrying about being labeled scary works for 60.  Happy Halloween porch sitters – don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!  See y’all next week – on the porch.

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Patti Parish-Kaminski

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