Throwback Thursday: Old lady poetry

I wrote and shared this poem nearly nine years ago, and I stand by the sentiment a decade later: I don’t want to be an old lady. But I’m an old lady who wants what she wants. Given the alternative—not getting the chance to get older—I’ll claim the space an old lady has earned.

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I don’t want to be an old lady

I don’t want to be an old lady,
but I want to wear fashionably functional shoes
not fashionably painful ones.

I don’t want to be an old lady,
but I want to wear flashy bras under my girly blouses
not flash my girls.

I don’t want to be an old lady
but I want to drink wine out of a glass
not wopatui out of a paper cup.

I don’t want to be an old lady,
but I wish a buffalo chicken salad with dressing on the side
was as easy on my hips as a buffalo chicken sandwich with a side of fries.

I don’t want to be an old lady,
but I want to carry a cute black bag
not wear them under my eyes.

I don’t want to be an old lady,
but I want to listen to lyrical music sung by singers who make me wanna scream
not unintelligible music screamed by singers that make me wanna wear ear plugs.

I don’t want to be an old lady,
but I want my man of maturity to listen to my hopes and dreams
not immaturely hope and dream I’ll shut up and listen.

I don’t want to be an old lady,
but since I can’t keep a wrinkle-free face and youthful body,
I want to keep a carefree and youthful attitude.

Can I get it in a cute pink jar with collagen-building vitamins?

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