By: Eliza Mimski

When I was writing my novel Sex, Love and Makeovers in the City of the Ancient Cougars, a novel about a make-believe South American town that hosted a beauty pageant for elderly women, I wanted to depict women in their late seventies and beyond as still going strong, even if encumbered–in the case of one of the main characters–with health problems. We all know that women my age and older are generally presumed by society to be over the hill and are seldom seen as full of life force.

          This isn’t true. Many of us are full of life force, and the only over the hill I seem to be aware of would be me panting up ten flights of decorative stairs in San Francisco’s Sunset district. It seems that nothing can keep me down for long, not even the stroke I had a year and a half ago. Yeah, a crummy stroke that was followed by a neurological condition where every few months it feels like I’m having a stroke all over again. Apparently, the front part of my brain–the executive center–isn’t always able to control the back of my brain, and this is causing the feelings of repetitive strokes. Great! Just what I needed! Anyway, enough of that. What I meant to write about was life force, that nothing can stop both me and the women I know who I considered the elderlies–a term I came up with that I like a lot. Question: is there something happening with the older generation in American society these days? Have you noticed how attractive we are? Take a look. How we not only dress chic but often dress with our parts–boobs, stomachs, hips hanging out–no matter what we weigh, no matter how big or spindly-legged? That we accept and love our bodies? You see, we’re not concerned any longer with pleasing anybody other than ourselves. We don’tgive a crap about what others think because we are the new kick ass elderlies, out and about doing things we want. As for me, I’m retired but still work two or three days a week, and I spend at least two hours a day writing my new novel plus I trek up and down the San Francisco hills at least a couple of miles each and every day–have I already mentioned this?–I can’t remember.  There I am over there panting–do you see me? Sure, the younger generation hikes up the hills while I plod along, but who gives a flying tomato?

          When my mother was my age and even younger, the women of her generation dressed in plaid housedresses that buttoned down the front and were belted in the middle and with boring full skirts. They wore their permanented hair in short, tight, unflattering curls close to their heads, but at least they did wear red lipstick and darkened their eyebrows–the only excitement in their appearance. There were no black yoga pants, no form-fitting tops or hoodies, no converse, and wearing your hair long and untamed, or any way you wanted, wasn’t a societal option.

The older women in my novel (and here’s where the parody comes in) are seeking attention from the young men in their twenties and thirties who travel to Ciudad de las Pumas Antiguas, or Ciudad as it’s referred to, to romance elderly women for different reasons–gigolos, fetishists or those with a genuine desire to fall in love with an elderly woman–and the women, generally self-conscious about their aging bodies, don’t let that stop them from sexual activity or entering the cougar beauty contest.

          I doubt the women I know would date someone fifty years younger than themselves or enter a cougar beauty contest, nor would I. I do, however, love their spirit. And let it be said that I wear yoga pants that show off my spindly legs, spindly, I am told, because of losing muscle mass, and my tight tops cling to me and show off my figure. I have red henna’d hair and let it go wherever it wants. My make-up includes black eyeliner and flashy red lipstick that I also rouge my cheeks, and I paint my ridiculously long nails a shiny black color.

          Can you see the outline of our Depends through our yoga tights? Does it bother you? Too bad! Get over it, people, because we don’t give a flying radish! We have weak bladders. Many of us birthed children. An incontinent friend of mine refers to herself as the Urinator, proudly picturing herself as an aging Terminator.

          My aging friends. I love how they do what they want and dress how they want and take as long as they need while crossing the street without feeling bad for holding up traffic. They put in their time and deserve utmost respect. I love how they/I shout the F-word when on their laptops: This password isn’t working!

And this is what I think, that there’s a new generation of women my age who rock it– am I repeating myself? Just like the women in my novel, we are a force. Are you one of us? Please let me know.

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Eliza Mimski is a San Francisco writer who has published poetry, short stories and essays across the net and in print. Recently, Eliza found a special interest in writing about women and ageing and how we struggle for visibility.