The Old woman of Vinegar
Ah, mothers. At a birthday party I wear a pink quartz dress. I match it with a burgundy overcoat and a pink necklace. I feel well dressed.
And she arrives, the mater matuta: “You look like an old woman.”
Every time I put on a woman’s dress, with the hem properly at the knee, and not the usual trousers, I look old to her. Perhaps because she does not want me as an adult and I have understood this for some time now.
God, I don’t really look like an old woman, I am. Menopause gave me all the gifts it could, without sparing anything. Like fairies around the cradle of the future Sleeping Beauty, but upside down. On a subject with which Nature had already been a stepmother, she is now also raging with Age.