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Femme d’un certain âge
September 26th, 2007
It’s noon on a Wednesday and I am standing in a cafe, ordering an espresso. It has not been the easiest of days so far.
I am tired, sick from my sinus infection, fresh from the doctor’s office where I’d received a prescription for antibiotics and was told I have low thyroid, iron and vitamin D deficiencies, an overworked immune system, and various symptoms of perimenopause.
“Don’t let anyone tell you you’re just depressed,” my doctor warned.
As I wait for my dose of energy in a cup, I look around the cafe. I notice a dark haired older woman standing a few feet to my right. She is smartly dressed, smooth straight brown hair, refined in carriage yet relaxed. “A woman ‘of a certain age’,” I say to myself, remembering the delicate French euphemism. I wonder what she is doing today; how she fills her afternoons now that she is free of the nine-to-five hamster wheel; if she is happy.
The barista hands me my change and my receipt at the same time, and the receipt flutters to the floor. All at once, the woman beside me, a man behind me, and I bend down to pick it up.
The elegant woman gets to it first. As she hands it to me, she looks up into my eyes and smiles. No, truth be told, she grins. Her smile is so radiant and merry it startles me, draws me out of my cloudy gray world like a warm sun. It succeeds in provoking my own first genuine smile of the day.
La femme d’un certain âge, c’est moi… I hope.
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