"Well," my doctor said,"you are approaching that certain age. It could be early symptoms of The Change."
"The Change?" I asked. "The Change? That is singular, right? Just one change? I'm talking about changes. Plural. My face is filling out. My mind seems scattered. I went up half a shoe size. I have acne! Acne, for goodness sake. I don't even want to talk about facial hair. AND MY MOOD SWINGS. And yesterday I woke up with a cowlick. At this rate I'm afraid I will be fully changed into an out-of-shape teenage boy by Christmas."
"Rest assured," my doctor tried to assure me. "That is not possible."
"Well what about this: I am pretty sure my brain has started draining. And, this leaked knowledge, this data dump has now settled in my midsection and backside."
"Well, I must admit, that's an interesting theory..."
"And, here's my other thought: if I am going through a change, can I choose what I change into? I don't want to change into doughy, dippy, sleepy, weepy, saggy, baggy, bleepity-bleepy...which, by the way, would be the worst names ever for Santa's reindeer....If I am going to change, can I at least change into a better version of me? Can't you help this caterpillar turn into a butterfly? Bolder. Brighter. Graceful. Good vision. Spreading my wings, climbing higher, sharing joy, sipping sweet nectar. I don't want to be a moth. I want to be a monarch. "
"I don't really have a prescription for that...."
"Well, do you have an app for that? Or, how about a phone booth? Maybe I can simply enter a phone booth as a middle-aged mom and exit as superwoman. Now, that would be a cool change."
"I don't think that is realistic."
"You're right," I agreed. "You're right. My days of wearing the red hot mini skirt are probably long gone."
"I was actually talking about the phone booth. I don't think they even exist anymore."
Well, guess what? I found a telephone booth here in Tokyo. And, it inspired me.
So, The Change take warning. You surprised me with your unsettling symptoms. But, I've decided you aren't the boss of me. You are not even a respected coworker of mine. You are trying to mess with me and my family. You have messed with the wrong mother.
I am going out now to buy myself a pair of superwoman red boots. Size 9. Wide.
I will find them.
It may not be easy, but I am going to find ways to stand up to you and your stampeding syndromes.
And, I will raise up the gold belt in victory, too.
As long as it isn't too heavy, that is.
I've got some toning to do and some calcium to take.
And, yes, I will rock the red boots.
