It’s Our Prerogative… by Elizabeth Allen

What mother of a teenage daughter doesn’t like to be addressed as “her older sister”? Granted, the comment is usually delivered by some sleazy salesman as he attempts to close a sale or a just-pubescent waiter fishing for a larger tip, but still, it feels nice.


I find the older I get, the less selective I’ve become regarding the source of the compliments. I will gladly allow my morale to be boosted and my ego stroked by just about anyone from any walk of life or gender – with the possible exception of homeless people (although there was that one guy who looked remarkably like a scruffy Gerard Butler as he gulped his Mad Dog…)

The fact is, younger mothers probably get mistaken for their kids’ sisters all the time and take the faux pas for granted, while we more seasoned moms recognize that very narrow window and struggle to squeeze through for as long as possible.

CUE: hair color, face lifts, Botox, anti-wrinkling cream, or any one of a plethora of youth-mimicking devices or applications. Okay, I’ve only succumbed to coloring over my gray but I hail from a family of women who were no strangers to cosmetic surgery. That doesn’t mean I intend to follow their footsteps, in fact, I don’t want a face so tight you could bounce a dime off of. (Joan Rivers and Donatella Versace come to mind…ugh!) It would be fun though to hear some young man whisper under his breath “what a cougar” at me and not directed at a ’67 Mercury.

I’m not trying to look as young as my daughter; if I want to feel 16 again I’ll wait for senility to kick in. And for the most part, I’m pretty okay with the aging process. I had my fun before becoming a mother and contrary to Mr. Shaw’s quote, I did not waste my youth. All things considered, I don’t exactly have one foot in the grave, but who says we have to look like it?

                                      I’ll keep flirting until someone says, “Is there something in your eye?”