I’m a frump. Well, I’m not actually a frump or at least in Kansas City I feel frump free. But once I get off a plane in Orange County, California I’m definitely giving off frump vibes.
It makes me roll my eyes on a continuous loop how a mere three-hour plane ride transforms me from looking my age, to well, looking my age, which isn’t something that’s embraced in what’s been called one of America’s “vainest counties.”
My daughter has lived in Orange County for five years. Four of those as a college student and now she’s there for her career. So, I’ve gotten used to the frump feeling. A couple of years ago my daughter told me I should lean in to being an anomaly because it was cool, adventurous even, that I was walking around Newport Beach with my “original face.”
Actually, it wasn’t bad advice. But sometimes things occur that make me want to wave my frump flag just to let the people, specifically a waiter, know that frumps rule.
The incident in question happened when a waiter asked me in the most condescending way possible if my daughter and I were sisters. My initial thought was does this dude think I’m on an outing from a nursing home and thus such a ridiculous comment is meant as some advanced age coddling.
But before I even had a chance to fully process that thought he followed up that bon mot by telling me that he didn’t think I was old enough to order a drink.
To defend women everywhere but specifically women in Newport Beach with original to owner faces I stared at the waiter and let out a sigh. I sigh so deep that every muscle in my face moved which I’m sure scared the man because adults with full facial movement is probably not something he experiences every day in this Botox and filler wonderland.
After my third sigh, so I could really show off the elasticity of my forehead muscles, I informed the waiter that I was forty years older than my daughter so in no practical universe could we be sisters. I then explained that he probably needed to never trot out the sister line or the “too young to be drinking” B.S. again to any woman whose 1980s fashion muse was Alexis Carrington Colby from the TV show “Dynasty.”
He laughed and then I had to explain who Alexis Carrington Colby was and how she single handedly made blazers with enormous shoulder pads popular. This conversation, as you can imagine, was a long and winding road but I did feel like we had a bonding moment so I asked him why he was spouting such nonsense to me earlier.
He then uncomfortably confided in me that I looked like I wasn’t “from the area” and that those lines “usually work well on tourists.” Not content with that answer I probed deeper and asked why he thought I was a tourist. This made the poor guy very uncomfortable, so I took pity on him and said, “Is it because my face moves?”
He nervously smiled and said, “Something like that.”
Actually, the waiter did have a point. I was not one of the ageless beauties of Newport Beach. Here it’s hard to tell if someone is 40 or 70 and I don’t think it’s because they’re breathing air purified by palm trees.
Luckily, I was soon able to console myself by partaking of America’s great equalizer – a theme park in the summer. Where everyone is looking a little worse for wear from the excessive sweating, chafing and the impending doom of heat rash that’s beginning to take over their body. It’s definitely not pretty and I was all good with that.
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Snarky in the Suburbs 