Mid Century Modern

A former middle-aged woman walks into a bar …

No, this is not a setup looking for a punch line, although I welcome your suggested zingers in the comment section. This is no joke; I walked into a bar … and was called “cute”.  I don’t object to “cute” although at a bar I would prefer “hot”, “sexy”, “gorgeous” or “Can I buy you drink?” Sadly, as a former middle-aged woman I do not see these descriptors in my present or future evening excursions.   

My husband plays trombone in the Brazosport Big Band (BBB).  The big band is actually not that big, fewer than 20 musicians, so I’m not sure how it got its name.  Think about it, a traditional concert band consists of 40 and 80 members; that is big. One Texas high school marching band, The Allen Eagle Escadrille, claims over 800 members; that surpasses big.  Maybe the BBB’s name was penned by someone with an alliteration addiction or possibly a “Compared to What?” attitude.  “Yes, we are big … compared to a quartet or a trio.”  There is something to be said for a “Compared to What?” state of mind, but that is a subject for another day. It doesn’t matter if the BBB is big or not, I am a BBB groupie, or should I say, “booster” (BBBB).  So, it is no surprise that I had front row seats at their performance.  Maybe it wasn’t exactly front row; it was an outdoor concert and I sat in a lawn chair very close to the band. 

Listening to great music, surrounded by familiar community faces and enjoying the company of my future daughter-in-law and her mother, not much could make the evening better, except for a cold adult beverage.   The German restaurant that hosts the BBB has a beautiful bar and stocks a seemingly endless number of unique beers on tap.  Beer not being my drink of choice, I bellied up to the bar and ordered a Long Island Tea.  And that is when I heard it.  “Isn’t she cute?” “She is so cute.”  I looked around for that cute person and all I could see was two barely 21-year-old women a few feet away.  Their lips moved and out came that word again, “cute”. They looked at me and smiled, a smile you give a puppy or a baby or … a demure old woman.  To make the situation more unbearable, they did not acknowledge that I could hear them.  Only feet away, “Just look at her, she is cute.”  My cuteness is debatable, but I sure as hell am not deaf.  

“Are you talking about me?”  I am polite but direct.  “Are you calling me cute?”  Surprised, they giggled, “You look cute ordering a drink at a bar.”

There is something condescending about being called cute by Barely-21s.  It ranks right up there with pubescent clerks calling me honey, babe, dear, or sweetheart.   What should be reserved, sparingly, as terms of endearment by those closest to me, serve only to piss me off when slung around carelessly by the pimple-faced-kid at a fast-food drive through window. 

I wish I had witty comebacks.  On the occasion when I do, they tend to arrive hours too late while I’m replaying the incident like an old movie and hopelessly trying to sleep.  That is until recently when I was driving through the neighborhood.  A Cat 1 hurricane blew through my community a week earlier sparing the houses, for the most part, but devastating the trees.  The sound of chainsaws amplified the silence caused by a community wide power outage.  It was an unexpectedly beautiful post-hurricane day. Low humidity. Low temps. Sunshine.  I cruised the streets, surveying the damage from my silver convertible Mustang, top popped, and enjoying the weather.  Piles of debris steadily grew on the curbs; it was a vegetative war zone.  To my left a work crew of men, who I would describe as young men but from my view in life most men are young, stood amid a stack of sliced tree trunks and chain saws. As I approached, they started ‘cat calling’ me … me!  Whistles and “oh mama” and gestures.  I was obviously being mocked for driving a car intended for a younger woman. 

Enough!  Enough!  No more “cute”, “honey” or whistles.  I stopped my car, backed up a few yards to meet my tormentors eye to eye and seductively winked, blew kisses and then as demure as dynamite, slipped my ‘stang into drive leaving them justly disgusted in my dust.  

Don’t mess with this Mid Century Modern Woman.