The eventuality of a fading flower.
I've stopped "looking". I've resigned myself. I've decided that I can still be happy. I can still love, even if that person is only me. And I'm OK with it. (sorta')
Oh well. I do like cats. And orange-colored Crocks aren't really all THAT stupid looking. And there's A LOT to be said for the comfort of over-sized and baggy khaki shorts and big floppy garden hats.
And sex? Who needs it. Not I. I can live without it. (I s'pose).
I mean, at this age, often-times I can get the same level of enjoyment from watching chicken defrost in the microwave or separating recyclables into the appropriate bins for garbage day.
And gray is a color too. Isn't it? Why should I continue to spend tens of thousands of dollars a year to keep myself a fake brunette? Or, what I'll eventually be (in about ten more years): A purplish-blue-haired.
Anyhow, some of the best things in life are gray: George Washington, concrete, and jail-guard uniforms. We obviously NEED the color gray.
And the money I'd save on hair color alone could be put to better use. Like towards an unsexy, but comfortable wardrobe of a variety baggy khaki shorts, polo shirts and sweatshirts, and big floppy sun hats for the eventual hobby of gardening I'll decide to take up.
Or I could keep a stocked supply of premium cat food like Fancy Feast or something for my eventual ownship of eight or nine cats of which at least one'll be named "Mr. Finch", and all of whom I'll coo "Mommyyyy loves her kittyyy baaaabiees... " .
Spinsterhood has it's benefits I'm sure. I mean, who needs handsome men around to flirt with. Not I. And I'll feel relieved actually, that I can peddle around the neighborhood on my 1960's Flightliner bicycle without worry of a "pick-up" attempt or whistles from passing cars. And the words "Hey baby!" are COMPLETEly over rated. "Ma'am" and "Lady", or "Old Mrs.___" are just fine with me. More character to them, I'd say, than "Hot chick" or "Foxy".
I can complain with impunity, for hours on end, about my lumbago, bunions, and varicose veins. That's REAL "unloading". And don't forget about those senior citizen discounts on bingo nights.
And dining alone isn't so bad. The servers'll get to know me on a first name bases. I'll be greeted nicely and ask if it'll be "the usual". And I'll smile and nod "Yes Dear. Thank you." And I'll open to the folded page of my Harlequin Romance novel: "His Steely Love, Her Delicate Flower", as I wait for my weekly serving of liver and onions. An excellent source of iron you know.
Of course I'll need to change my name from "Veronica" to something say like, Mildred or Hazel, or Edith. Or even Vern. "Veronicas" usually aren't the "spinster" types.
*sigh* Middle-aged spinsterdom won't be all that bad.