They should make a Tinder app for old people called Geezer. Not that I would use it because, as we have previously established, I am not old. I’m just saying it’s a good idea.
My daughter was describing to me how Tinder works. So I asked, Do they have a Tinder for chubby old people?
“Yes, Mom, they do. You can adjust the search settings. But what you just said doesn’t describe you.”
See, this is why she’s my favorite youngest child. She drops pearls of wisdom like this on the daily. But her comment got me thinking. Does she really not see what I see when I look in the mirror? I mean, I clean up nice and all, but I would definitely need to adjust the search settings on my Geezer app.
How can it be that she sees something different? It’s not like she isn’t honest. She is brutally honest. Such as…
“Mom, I’m mystified by your choice of footwear.”
Not cruel. Not mean. In fact, the use of “mystified” casts neither judgement nor criticism, which was brilliant and cunning on her part. Nonetheless, honest.
When my kids post on Instagram and Facebook for my birthday or Mother’s Day, they have been known to say that I’m beautiful. They say other things like smart and funny and badass, which are all totally true, but I am shocked every time the “B” word is mentioned. Especially because they, of all people, have seen me at my worst. Dark circles under my eyes from no sleep, hair piled on top of my head and bangs clipped back cuz I can’t stand to have them touch my face at the end of the day (this is also known as “8-hour bangs” and yes, I have issues), and they are witnesses to bodily malfunctions that I prefer not to get into at this juncture. (All this, by the way, describes how I looked yesterday. And right now.)
I remember as a child thinking that my mother was stunningly beautiful. I still think that, but I don’t know that she ever saw that in herself. She was blonde and looked like Debbie Reynolds back in the day. Graceful and lovely and full of life. Now she has beautiful white hair and is still full of life. And more than a little cheeky, which explains a lot about me.
Maybe that’s what my daughter can see that I cannot. She sees my best self. Not that she doesn’t also see the crazy woman who occasionally dresses up in an oriental bath robe with the sash tied around her head as she frantically chops vegetables with a very sharp knife. That is, no doubt, alarming and concerning on many levels. She just chooses to look past the crazy to see the beauty instead.
She sees a “slightly deranged” woman who would do anything to protect her children. Who wants nothing more than for them to find peace and joy along their path. For them to be brave and kind and just the right amount of badass. My daughter sees the physical manifestation – beautiful in every way – of a mother’s infinite love.
Does that mean that she won’t put me in a home when I really am old? Absolutely not. She has pictures of me in the oriental bath robe and fully intends to use them as evidence when the time comes.