This bit of technology is a stretch, I know

Let's get this out in the open right away.
I am 59 years old. 59. Commit that to memory.

My trainer is seven years younger. Commit that to memory.

Now, let's go back in time.

When I was 55, I retired from high school teaching and moved to an adjunct job at CMU. Because I was tired of messing with chemicals,  (Don't get excited. We're talking hair color. Peroxide. You know.) I decided to let my hair grow out and see if it would be as pretty as my Mom's.

Here's a shot of my 86 year old mom and my granddaughter, Gwenna Rose, getting some antibiotics at Thanksgiving.

Here's a shot of me, the same weekend, with Gwenna Rose in the saddle.

Ok. So our haircolor is pretty close.

In January, I began working out once a week with a trainer. As I have dropped pounds and become acquainted with people, I've had several conversations with them. About five weeks ago a woman who knew my trainer said, "Oh, how cool you are working out with your mom."

I stopped in my tracks.

"WHAT did you say?" I asked, stunned. "Did you say his MOM?"

"Oh no. You didn't hear me right," she said. "I didn't say that at all."

I left in tears, called my daughter who thought someone had died, and proceeded to cry the rest of the day.

It happened again last Thursday.

A really nice lady who always gives me encouragement, was excited when I told her I had lost 37 pounds. As she was leaving she said to my trainer, "How cool that your mom has lost 37 pounds."

This time I was ready.

"I am 59," I snapped. "He is seven years younger. Do you THINK I could be his mom?"

She was so embarrassed that I felt sorry for her and didn't bitch slap her like I did the other woman.

However, when I conveniently had a hair appointment later that afternoon, I told my stylist through tears that I was ready for something to change. I was kind of thinking the Sinead O'Connor look.

When she suggested we go back to the dark side, I was a nervous wreck. I knew that would mean touchups every 3 seconds and fading hair and looking like a hooker. All those things that had made me let it go natural in the first place.

"Go for it," I said.

And this is the new me, ready to be the mom of my own two children but not my trainer. No way.

Here's to technology. And chemicals.