So, I’m 51 now and I’m not exactly the cupcake I used to be. Take my word for it and don’t make me send you unfiltered selfies, shot at an angle that accentuates my taupe incisors and pre-menopausal muttonchops. Cupcake? No. Triscuit spread with Miracle Whip? More likely.
I stand my own unabridged self, though, among a population of hygienic and coiffed women who smell like citrus and jasmine. And, until recently, I was okay with my positioning in that hierarchy.
Then that damn Baddie Winkle bulldozed her way into my life and ruined everything.
I didn’t know her in 2014 when she exploded onto the Instagram scene. But I sure know her now. Imagine a ninety year-old matriarch that’s an amalgam of Gypsy Rose Lee + Janis Joplin + Cher. Whether Baddie’s in a pot-leafed swimsuit topped by a vinyl raincoat or a rainbow faux fur croptop, you can’t look away. You don’t want to look away. And it’s annoying.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. She was wearing a “Bitches all hate me” t-shirt and my brain screamed, “THEN I MUST BE THE QUEEN OF BITCHES, LADY!”
My retaliation? I upped my “I’ll-Show-You-My-Sexy-Pussycat” game. I found my razor and took care of the tufted hair on my legs! I traded my stained, low-hanging-crotch onesie for skinny jeans and a cleavage-inspiring top! I found my deodorant—and I used it!
All this effort, and then I was gobsmacked. And I knew I’d lost. There they were, more Googled images of that fiery trixie vamping for the camera. This time parading her bod in a transparent, bedazzled jumpsuit…then a Sriracha bosom-baring jumpsuit…then a fitted-like-an-oil-slick jumpsuit…. Those f&%#ing, f%#*ing jumpsuits!
Baddie, oh Baddie, this could’ve ended differently if you would have just known your place and spent your days mustily hunched over, crocheting pot holders. But you got too sassy, too sizzly, sister, and you had to flaunt that red-hot minxiness in my face. It was like a challenge.
And I accept that challenge, my nonagenarian friend. What: A cage fight. Where: A cage. Who: Just you, me, and my ham-fists pummeling your brittle bones. Don’t be surprised if I flatten your creped-skinned carcass with a folding chair.
Oh, it’s on, and it’s your own damn fault. If you hadn’t been so dazzlingly fabulous, you wouldn’t be my imagined nemesis. (And I also wouldn’t have had to pluck my chin hairs and buy some Spanx.) You created this rivalry, bad-ass granny, now whatcha gonna do about it?
Susie Cross is a Baddie Winkle wannabee and a high school teacher on sabbatical for 12 short years. She has kids, she has a husband, she has two cats and one dog. She is blessed. You can find more of her writing under Susie Bonzo at https://m.facebook.com/susie.bonzo?tsid=0.02644151746690382&source=result