Ever wonder if you’re “of a certain age?” If you’ve wondered, then you probably are. Unless you’re a man. Men are never of a certain age. A man is usually a noun, like banker or plumber. The exception is if he’s a “man of character” or “of means,” in which case it’s okay to be a preposition.
It’s not a hard science, but a woman’s theoretical certain-agedness sits somewhere on the timeline between perimenopause and cremation. Fortunately, there are criteria that can help a woman of a certain age determine whether or not she is in fact, that.
Signs that you might be A Certain Age
You consider spending $490 for a 3.4 oz. jar of legendary crème invented by a rocket scientist who stumbled on the formula while trying to heal burns. Pricey, but someone’s got to pay technicians to bathe the Hope Broth in sound waves not unlike the burbling in your gut after eating a burrito.
You’re not sure if you are spending $150 for 1 oz. of Hope Broth, or $490 for 3.4 oz. because you can’t find your reading glasses.
Your joints aren’t what they used to be (now they’re legal and smell like skunk).
You’re not shocked when someone calls you Ma’am; in fact you’re grateful that they’re not being an impolite asshole. You’re also sort-of hoping they’ll carry your suitcase, which is really one big case of Hope Broth.
Your computer technician informs you that he rents out his naked body at parties as a canvas for painting. He invites you to the House of Yes out for a night of aerial contortion, dancing, and fire. You’re thinking about it.
Your eyes don’t gush water like the Fontaines de la Concorde to see Timothée Chalamet on the red carpet.
You’ve embraced the liberating feeling that comes with discarding the non-essential, seizing what matters most, and saying what you think – which is why when a child asks, “Why are you old?” you look the darling in the eye and gracefully reply: “Because the other option ain’t so good, you Little SHIT!!!”
The only sure way to know that you are definitely A Certain Age
Someone refers to you as “a certain age.” It could be a mortal blow were it not for the fact that the person who utters these words is herself, for sure, of a certain age (and for sure it is a “her”).
The fact that you can surmise the age of the messenger—despite the cloud of mystery, the nebulosity of it all—is proof that you just might be of a certain age, yourself.
It dawns on you that Hope Broth might be nothing more than opulent caulk, but you don’t care because there’s a .02% chance that this crème can pump life into your dehydrated complexion faster than an air compressor can inflate a ’67 Chevy tire.
Timothée Chalamet who?
DJ NaughtyFinger? Bootylicious? Hell, yeah! See you at the House of Yes!!