I’m sick of the competition

I’m tired of looking at that little eighty-sevenyear-old woman running a marathon. I know, it took her three days and a portable defibrillator, but she made it. She looked pretty good, too. If I tried to run a race at my age, considerably younger than eighty-seven, they would have to social distance me in the line-up. Not because of a virus, but the flapping of my skin would probably knock someone over.

I’m also tired of Martha Stewart. I’m not sure how old she is, but she is a lot older than she looks. Granted, her plastic surgeon had to put in some extra eye-holes after he pulled the original ones up near the top of her head. Seriously, she took a selfie the other day and posted it on Facebook where it got over a million shares. She had been in her pool … obviously not swimming. Her hair wasn’t wet. Anyway, she said she was just coming out of the water and wanted to take a picture of some flowers that she had invented. The phone “accidentally,” snapped a selfie. She said it looked so good that she had to share it. It did look good. But it could have been Jennifer Anniston. She was blonde, she had no wrinkles, and she had a huge pool behind her. I’m still not convinced.

I’m also tired of Norah O’Donnell. She has pretty hair, long legs, a slim body, and she’s smart. I’ll bet she has help at home. Maybe even a full-time maid. That means she doesn’t have to clean off the table. If she did have to clean up after three kids, she’d eat “leavings” just like I did, and she wouldn’t have that body. Her husband is a chef, so she doesn’t even have to cook. And … that hair looks fake. Nobody can get up as early as she did on the morning show and look that good. Even Gayle looks a little ragged now and then. Now that she does the nightly news, she probably has time to go to the beauty shop … and maybe get her hair dyed. I have not seen one gray hair. Get real. She’s slim, long-legged, well dressed, and beautiful. Not only that, she can pronounce Azerbaijan, Galifiankis, and the name of any Irish baby. She knows where countries are, who the leaders are, and what the President meant by his last tweet. I’m sick of her … and I watch her every night.

Mostly, I’m tired of the competition. My great, great grandmother, who had ten children and moved to the country because she didn’t want anyone to know that she was pregnant again, did not have to compete with a woman who could ride a horse, bake a six course meal without breaking a sweat … or a wrinkle, and swim without getting her hair wet. My grandmother didn’t have to watch the classy newswoman balance on fiveinch heels and bat her baby blues while interviewing Putin. My grandmother didn’t have to run a race, wear a face mask, home-school her children, or try to look good. She was just herself. They didn’t have television, and they probably didn’t have good mirrors. Competition wasn’t a concern.