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A park. Morning. Jogging. Suddenly, a girl runs over me. I admire her round ass, I think: “I’ll overtake, I’ll see who she is!”. The girl turns out to be over 50. She rushes like a nimble goat.
Restaurant. Evening. I read the menu. Suddenly, women's legs fall into my “frame”: tight-fitting jeans, heavy green martens. What is a fashion beauty? I raise my eyes. Beauty 60 years old.
This has never happened in Russia. After fifty, the eternal fate of women - pies, grandchildren, knitting, quiet fading to the Mayak radio. And the word "grandmother" as a sentence. Sit down, aunt, don't rock the boat. Your age has passed, look out the window at the young, feed the pigeons, silently cry into your shopping bag.
And suddenly they will jump out, how they will jump out! Cool grandmothers. They are over fifty. They are athletic, funny, carbon monoxide. Their youth fell on the 1980s, then they breathed in the laughing gas of freedom and still fly and frolic. “We drank all night, walked all night until morning,” as Tsoi sang about.
I have two ex-mother-in-laws. Both wonderful women. I have a very good relationship with both. (By the way, I hate jokes about my mother-in-law, they are composed by hungover idiots-losers. Our mothers-in-law are the best in the world.) So there is a difference of 25 years between them. And this is a huge difference, two eras. mental difference. The first, as soon as a grandson was born, immediately retired. She became a classic Russian grandmother. Cozy, kitchen, unhurried.
The second one not only works with might and main, she plays volleyball and skis. Manicure and pedicure is a must. Beautician and hairdresser will not be missed for anything. She is fitter, healthier and cooler than her young daughter. And she is a super grandmother, her granddaughter adores her. By the way, she also knits well. Has time.
Cool grandmas are a phenomenon of our time.
I'm sick of them. Men over 50 are unbearable. Sofa, screen, scrambled eggs. At best, fishing once a year, which they are going to, as if on an expedition to Mars, except that they don’t buy spacesuits. And at the last moment they cut their finger a little: “Oh, I can’t go, I need a doctor!” And these grandmothers are passionaries. They have a complete drive.
Any woman of age knows such moral agony. Tomorrow, let's say, she's going to a restaurant, to a meeting. She begins to prepare for the day. And at the last moment, already in the hallway, he looks at himself in the mirror: “Damn, I’m not going anywhere!”
Cool grandmas don't have that kind of problem. They are satisfied with themselves. And if they are dissatisfied, they wink at themselves in the mirror and - sniff out the door. Forward, to the theater, to a party, to sports!
My friend works as a trainer in one of the trendy fitness centers. She says that she has a lot of clients who are over 60. “Of course they don’t pump their buttocks,” she says. “More often it’s a pool, walking on a track, yoga, body ballet.” They don’t complain about anything, they don’t watch Elena Malysheva’s programs, they look great, it’s fun for them to live. They bring their teenage granddaughters to the hall. And granddaughters may well bring such a grandmother to their company, she will light it up so that stunted youth will fall.
At fashion shows, it's all about big money. There are few young people, young people watch serials. Cool grandmas everywhere have time. They didn't have much fun in their youth, they're catching up now. They have even breathing, a warm heart, a mocking look.
Behind them are tragedies, losses, misfortunes. Cheating husband, scandals with children, the first wrinkles. "Oh my god, no!" And now everything is ill, the children are very grown-up, wrinkles? Well, don't go crazy with them. They don't get plastic surgery, they're not crazy. Although creams in the morning and at night are sacred. And dye your hair - maybe become red?
They dress up smartly. And they don't look ridiculous. You can look ridiculous in your youth: a stupid bag, a cheap dress, unfashionable jeans. In youth, all this nonsense is important. You have a "contract" with society, you must fit into the canons, regulations, protocol. You are a social plankton.
When you are over fifty, the contract is broken. As the wise Isabella Rossellini told me, “age is freedom.” You no longer owe anything to anyone, you live as you want, you are free. You don't care if men stare at your ass, you don't give a damn what your boring girlfriends say.
Red curls, colorful dress, sneakers. “Oh, my little babe!” as Sukachev sang. And, damn it, in this freedom, in this laughter, in this unraveled gait, there is more sexuality than in that young full-breasted chick who sits in a restaurant and looks at her smartphone every minute: like lipstick, how does the bang lie, how do the cilia flap? The chick is afraid to move her head, the chick is all on her nerves, the chick is selling herself. She's on a contract.
And three cool grandmothers are sitting next to them, drinking wine and laughing. They have a fun evening ahead of them. They have an interesting life ahead of them. And what are they "grandmothers"? Girls. Albeit with wrinkles. Girls, can I sit down with you, huh? I want intoxication, but it's boring with the young.