Operation Crazy Old Southern Lady

I love her more than my luggage!

I am done whining (for now at least) about my passage in to my thirties. Although I realize it will be awhile before I can fully attain crazy old lady status, I am taking my thirties as an opportunity to get just a little more cranky and bitter. Consider it my decade of taking baby steps towards my ultimate goal. In order to do so, I need to clearly outline what makes the little old crazy Southern lady tick.

1. She needs to be Southern - duh! I am currently living in the southern edge of the DC/Northern Virginia metro area. Below the Mason-Dixon, yes, but hardly what I would consider the south. My upcoming move to coastal North Carolina will remedy that. Onward to the land of Cheerwine, pulled pork sandwiches and being able to smoke my Virginia Slim Menthol Light 100s anywhere I damn please.
   
2. She needs to dress crazy - Crazy old ladies look like they dressed themselves in the dark. Polyester pants, wide-brimmed straw hats with heavy ornamentation, housecoats, muu-muus, overalls, plaids mixed with florals. All this madness can be traced back to the fact that they really don't give a damn anymore. While I am not ready to trade my knee-high boots in for gardening clogs just yet, I am ready to start wearing things simply because I like them. Being a slave to the fashion magazines and what my friends are wearing is for my twenties. I am going to start dressing for me now.
3. She needs to go for social outings at her church, bridge club and salon - I am pretty sure I would burst in to flames if I walked inside one, so church is out for me. Don't know how to play bridge or bunko... yet! I am down for the salon if I could ever find a stylist that I really like. I just need to find a place where I become a part of the local color. Knowing me, it will probably end up being a bar. Baby steps here, remember?
4. She needs to have a signature drink - I've seen the old ladies stick to the classics on this one (martinis or Tom Collins) but it really cracks me up when they get more exotic and order up a Pink Lady, Singapore Sling or Alabama Slammer. While I have been known to guzzle anything in the joint, my go-to drink is a Captain and Diet, with the occasional Bloody Mary. Must... find... better... signature... drink!
   
5. She needs to be cranky and share her opinions at full volume to whomever will listen - Actually, I am already halfway there on this one.
6. She needs to shop at the Piggly Wiggly - It was good enough for Miss Daisy. Check that box...there is one just down the road from my new place.

From Roaring 20s To... Dirty 30s?

I am currently staring down the barrel of my 30th birthday. And it is a short barrel. Very short. As in, 4 days from now short. As much as I'd like to hold my head high and claim that I am embracing a new decade with grace and pizazz, truthfully I am looking forward to spending this birthday curled up in the fetal position, guzzling vodka and ignoring calls from so-called friends phoning in to taunt me.

"But Maggie", you might ask, "aren't you the one who can't wait to turn in to a crazy old lady?" to which I will gleefully cackle affirmation. But 30 isn't crazy old lady territory yet. I still have another 20 years before I can bust out the hats adorned with birds and feathers or wear a fur coat over a housecoat with gardening clogs. Since I am on the subject of fashion, allow me to make a clothing related analogy: Your 30s are like a black V-neck sweater from the Gap. Sensible. Practical. Necessary. But freaking boring!

Your 30s are when you are old enough to know better. You can jump up on a bar and start dancing when the mood strikes you in your 20s... or even in your 50s, because who's going to argue with you then?

This seems to be the decade about getting your shit together. Get married (or remarried) quick... it might be your last chance. Hurry up and pop out a few kids before your eggs shrivel up. Land that promotion before some snot-nosed kid fresh out of college steals it. Quit throwing your money away on rent and buy a house. Invest your money because retirement will sneak up on you. Let some grass grow under your feet. Settle down. Grow up.

When I was 23, I worked with a woman who refused to celebrate her 42nd birthday, choosing instead to refer to it as the 13th anniversary of her 29th birthday. I thought she was being silly at the time.

Now I understand...