Crone on, sisters.

In literature at least, women are often lumped into three categories, divided by age: maiden, mother, crone. They’re also sometimes divided by proclivity into Madonna/Whore, but that’s a false dichotomy invented by men, that has more to do with THEIR proclivities than with any real sense of women.

I freely and proudly admit that I’m entering (have entered? am well into?) my crone years. And I’m LOVING it. In spite of the surprises wrought by gravity and a few decades of a carb-heavy diet, being a crone has advantages:

1. Lack of estrogen and a slowing metabolism mean that crones often take on a wee bit of weight. If one lives in the north, putting on a few extra lbs for winter provides necessary insulation. In addition, thigh friction adds extra heat and does not, as is often believed, spark fires.

2. People listen to crones. I suppose some think wrinkles = wisdom, or that experience and time have tested our theories and practices, so that we’ve winnowed things down to only what’s true and workable.

3. People don’t listen to crones. Older women become invisible, which has two important advantages: (1) It proves my theory that we’re all just animals, and that once past reproductive possibility, crones are of no interest to younger people except as nannies/grannies (ironically and falsely, older men are often considered MORE wise/dignified/worthy of respect and even veneration in their “golden” years – and I would dearly love to smack whomever came up with that “golden” expression); (2) It allows crones to say and do pretty much whatever the heck we want, so long as it doesn’t harm anyone else or draw the attention of the constabulary.

4. Crones can comfortably hold contradictory views.

5. Heavy, pendulous, crone-y breasts make a decent “third hand” when gathering up armloads of small items that pile up on the dining room table and that must occasionally be redistributed to other parts of the house.

6. Crones have loads of ready excuses for NOT engaging in the hard-body exercise required of desirable youth, including but not limited to arthritis, new hips/knees/ankles/shoulders, exhaustion, swooning, and vapors.

7. Crones’ “hobbies” are seen as quaint. This is good cover for the fact that I could knit a straightjacket from which you’d never escape, or that I could be burying anything in that jungle of tomato and cucumber plants, or that I’m teaching one of my le petit canaries to attack on command (a la Hitchcock).

8. Sky’s the limit when it comes to crone wardrobe. Wanna wear white shoes after Labor Day? Have at it. In fact, wear white go-go boots. Wanna wear a crocheted halter top? You’re invisible, remember? Do it. Wanna wear a moo-moo with an all-over chili pepper print? Can you find a head wrap and handbag to match? Some summer days, I like to don a Sophia Loren headscarf and huge sunglasses, put on a bikini (I tuck in as much of me as possible—I’m not a monster) and high heels, and stroll on the beach…in another town.

My great grandmother Effie.

9. Crones can take advantage of the super early morning Covid shopping hours, when we don’t have to worry as much about unmasked, unvaccinated idiots (I've lost all patience and understanding for these willful infectors), bumper carts, or aisle rage.

10. Carl Jung postulated that in our post-childbearing years (he said one’s 40’s), we “reclaim ourselves,” that we rediscover our own selfhood, including our interests and our beliefs/spirituality. Since 60 is the new 40, I’m excited to be in this phase. So far, I’ve rediscovered napping, wine, Troll dolls, and sunflower seeds in the shell. I’m exploring my atheism and how that squares with my absolute belief in an intelligent Universe—pantheism maybe? And I’m pretty sure tap dancing is in my “rediscovering” future, so I’ll let you know when I have a recital coming up…