This Crone ain’t takin’ your shit anymore
Don’t think older people are helpless, or powerless.
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Once upon a time, I was a young girl. I was. Beneath all these sagging muscles and deep wrinkles and thinning hair, lies a young girl from the past.
And when I was young, everyone and I mean everyone, seemed old. My babysitter. I was 8, she was 18. Old. Very old. She wore makeup.
My pediatrician…he seemed ancient, though he was probably just in his 40s.
And when I was a teenager, there was a saying…don’t trust anyone over 30. And even at that, a 30-year-old seemed older than dirt.
Now it’s funny…as you are growing up, you are eager to count the years. “How old are you, Joanna?” “7 and ¾.” Ha-ha…after 30, you stop that counting shit.
And the years fly by…so fast. Babies become children and children become teenagers and teenagers become young adults and young adults become…well, the years keep flying by.
And then you start hitting the milestones…40, 50, 60 and then Medicare at age 65. And society gifts you with an invisibility cloak. And you are officially a crone in this world. Worthy of being worthless. And ignored. You could rob banks because no one really looks at you anymore. This is especially true of older women…the crones.
Crone was a term for a wise woman, a guide, but our current society turned crone into a hag witch with a wart on her nose. The stuff of Grimm fairy tales.
We all age, it’s a part of life, but damn it, I am not willing to be invisible. No not me. I will not let this society limit me. I’m downright obstinate about that…and a bit touchy as well…
A while ago, in Santa Monica, I was at the dog park with my dog, Hotshot. Now there are two sections to the park…a section for big dogs and one for the wee ones. I was in the little dog section and Hotshot was running around playing w/ a bunch of dogs. He likes to play with dogs of all sizes, so we alternate between the sections.
This woman comes into the little dog section and brings a rather oversized dog. The dog immediately runs over to this tiny white fluff of a puppy and attacks it. The couple who owns the little dog rushes in and pushes the bigger dog away. They pick up their puppy whose face is bloody, and part of her snout is dangling away from her nose. They are horrified.
The woman who owns the attack dog, says nothing, and leaves for the big section of the park, not taking responsibility at all.
While the puppy’s mom holds the bleeding pup, her partner follows the woman asking for her information so that she can pay the vet bill.
Everyone in the park is watching the unfolding drama. The woman keeps trying to evade the man, and I step in to help get her information. Between the two of us, we corner her, and she reluctantly agrees to take responsibility. That done, the couple hurries out of the park to bring the injured pup to the vet.
And so, I think the incident is over. With order restored, pet owners continue chatting and watching the frolicking dogs. But there is this one young woman, in her 20s, standing by. She’s fit, like a kick boxer, and wearing baggy sweatpants and a cut off sweatshirt to show off her formidable abs. She is pretty with long black hair and dark eyes that now look at me with fury.
She starts yelling at me. “You hounded that woman. You’re a bitch.”
And she’s walking towards me, to intimidate me. “ Hey old lady, why don’t you mind your own business.” And she’s a foot in front of me.
Now, here’s the truth. When I heard her say “Hey old lady”…something happened in my brain…something primitive…my amygdala lit up and the next thing I know, I‘m chest bumping this chick and pushing her backwards while saying, “Who are you calling an old lady?” She’s shocked as shit…. her face a concoction of surprise, rage, and fear.
She suddenly stands her ground, but our chests are still touching. Our noses inches from each other. “What do want, grandma? Do you want me to hit you?”
I am so angry now, that my anger is white hot and I’m calm…too calm…and I say to this juvenile girlie, “Well, if you do hit me, you better make it good. Because it will be the last punch you ever take.”
And get this…I’m getting ready for the punch. I’m preparing. I’m calculating that if she goes to hit me, I’ll take the dog leash hung around my neck, and I’ll flip it over her head and pull her towards me and head butt her. And then I’ll kick her in the groin. All of this flashes in my mind in a nanosecond.
She’s frozen. We stand glaring at each other. Then she backs down and says, “You’re one motherfucking crazy grandma” and I say, “You got that right.”
She grabs her dog and leaves the park. Adrenaline back kicks through my body.
I turn around and there sitting on the dog benches are about half-dozen people staring at me, mouths wide open in shock and amazement.
I know most of them. I look down at the ground. Ashamed of my anger. My lack of control. I mutter a “sorry, guys” and then one man starts to clap, and then others join in. And they come over to me and one older lady says “That was awesome. You did that for all of us older women. You bullied the bully.” Another guy said, “We had your back. If she hit you, we would have taken her down.”
They are group hugging me now. I have to fight tears. I smile at the dog owners. Great folks all.
On that day I became a true crone, a powerful crone.
And I define a crone as a mentor, a goddess, because once upon a time, you were allowed to be anything you wanted to be. You are who you choose to be. And I refuse to capitulate.
“Hey, old lady” — yeah, I was fantastic. Standing firmly in power.
Ding, dong the witch is hoppin’. She’s alive and eager to live large. She’s the strongest woman. And the strongest woman is a crone who just wants to have fun.
