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 Middle-Aged
Mombo
by Ann Boreson
It's a well-known fact - probably documented in some
hoity-toity Harvard study - that young girls around
the pubescent age of 13 develop breasts, a need for
independence and a paranoia that they are slowly transforming
into their irrational, badly dressed mothers.
One day my daughter Sarah was skipping door to door
selling Campfire mints. The next, she was spitting venom
at me across the produce aisle at QFC.
Carl Jung said, "If every effect has it's cause, I
must search for the cause and not blame the effect."
Amidst the old man fondling cantaloupe and my daughter's
punishing looks of disapproval, my mind flashed back
fourteen years, reminding me of the cause; her fathers
suave demeanor, the slight wave of hair at the nap of
his neck, a bottle of cheap red wine and a warm summer
night at Desperation Point. Years have passed and a
tall buxom bombshell with legs that reach up into the
heavens like Jack's beanstalk has since taken my place
leaving me to raise a slew of kids that seem angry at
everything I represent including that my legs look like
fire hydrants.
"Why don't we get Cheese Puffs, Mombo?" Sarah pleaded,
cleverly using my nickname.
"Because Cheese Puffs have no nutritional value. Do
you want to stunt your growth?"
"Like you do with coffee?!" she roared defiantly.
The thought had occurred to me. I wouldn't mind stunting
my growth. The only way I was growing was out of my
jeans and into those elastic waistband pants. A cup
of coffee was exactly what I needed to take the edge
off the day and relax the blue veins protruding from
my neck and the wrinkles that had hijacked my face.
Realizing that we had captivated a group of old ladies
clutching two-for-one asparagus spears, I lowered my
voice a few octaves. "I know I'm supposed to be building
self-esteem, JUST GIVE ME SOMETHING TO WORK WITH."
My daughter scowled and turned her attention to a fine-tuned
woman cruising the aisles in solitude. "There's Courtney's
mom. Isn't her hair rad? Courtney always gets to borrow
her mom's clothes. She is soooo lucky!"
"What's wrong with my hair? And didn't you wear one
of my shirts for Patriotic Day last week?" I said, staring
down at my Talbot attire.
"Mom, WHO ELSE has a red, white and blue striped shirt?"
We passed a woman demonstrating the latest craze in
fast food. With simplistic ease and the grace of royalty,
she removed a tray of miniature quiches from a portable
microwave and placed the hot morsels on a warming dish
with a spatula. Wearing a delicate apron of cotton and
lace, the woman reminded me of Betty Crocker, preparing
another culinary delight with her perfectly manicured
nails polished the same color as her tablecloth and
frost-tipped silver hair matching the utensils. My daughter
lunged for the quiches as if she had been without provisions
for weeks.
I picked up speed, banking off Betty Crocker's booth,
tearing inbetween the crab and lobster tank, finally
pulling to a stop at the rear of the checkout line.
Sarah grabbed a Seventeen magazine from the rack and
tossed me a Cosmopolitan.
"Paper or plastic, MA''AM?"
I continued to file through the Self-Help section,
past the "Is He Faithful?" Quiz and onto the Horoscope.
"Excuse me, MA' AM, would you like paper or plastic?"
the boyish voice repeated.
Imagining the fossilized woman he was addressing, I
kept my head planted within the pages of my magazine.
The poor old thing must be deaf, I thought. When I lifted
my head, I found all eyes upon me. The realization hit
me with the force of an air bag in a Volkswagen Bug.
I was ma'am, a middle-aged woman, old as time, the hills,
Methuselah.
I stared at the young man behind the conveyor belt,
the one who had decided to take my age public. Bob,
his embossed name tag said. I glanced over at the other
checkers who were now watching, and they didn't have
embossed name tags. They must have known that Bob was
a lifer, real management material.
I searched Sarah's face for reassurance, but she was
loving the theatrics, confirming the Harvard study and
her paranoia.
"Paper," I said. "The plastic bags seem to break."
The acne-faced bagger maneuvered the cart out the
automatic doors and into the sunlight. I inhaled the
air as if it were a newfound luxury and a benefit of
my health-insurance premium. Having very little tolerance
for pain and a small nasal passage, I prayed the oxygen
tubes weren't as cumbersome as they appear.
"Have a nice day, ma'am," bagger Bob said as he placed
the groceries in the back of the Suburban and winked
at my daughter. Had the kid no mercy?! I put the key
in the ignition and switched the blaring radio to an
easy listening channel.
My mind became clogged with vision of older women,
their blue, back-combed hair rising in the wind like
cotton candy at the County Fair. I envisioned myself
as one of those elderly matrons you see at the bus stop.
The kind that never read their schedules because they
lost their glasses, so they sit and wait endlessly for
the bus that takes them downtown to buy Christmas ornaments
in July. Their legs spread with a full-blown panoramic
view of knee-high nylons. The elastic ribbing stretched
tight around the folds of protruding skin. A white slip,
dangling below the dress line... I had worked myself
into a cold sweat by the time I idled the car into the
garage. My head drooped over the steering wheel.
"Sarah, I need to ask you something."
"What is it, Mom? You don't look good." A sign of
pity in her voice.
"Don't lie to me." I paused and took a deep breath.
"Do I have a mom butt?"
"A mom butt?"Sarah questioned.
"Yes, those long, flat butts that middle-aged moms
get. You know, the kind that look like Ohio."
Ann Boreson writes short stories and articles about
family life. Currently, she is working on a novel. Ann
and her three daughters live in Seattle.
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