I have been wallowing in old and recent pictures of the family.  You know, the end-of-year auld lang syne thing, except without the drunken protestations of undying friendship.

Jews, as a rule, are not innately happy, because if you are happy, then the Evil Eye will visit some horribleness upon you and your loved ones.  Preventing the Evil Eye from coming is hard work when you’re up against all the Yuletide cheer.  It requires devotion to cynicism (which is extremely difficult this time of year — as you may remember, even Ebeneezer Scrooge gave in to the Yuletide cheer), remembering every lost loved one, predicting doom and gloom in the New Year, and staying up nights thinking up disaster plans if your family is suddenly homeless.

While I was protecting my family and the world from imminent disaster (say Keynahora — don’t ask why, just say it) by tearing up while looking through photos of my mother of blessed memory (don’t worry, no bringing in the Joni here), I noticed in the pictures that over time, the muscle tone in my arms went from “awesome” to — er — “pretty good for middle-age”.  I decided that I needed to return to arms — not to “awesome”  but — to “omigod, your arms don’t look like they belong on a middle-aged woman!”   I determined that if I said “keynahora”, the incantation said by my grandmother right after she kissed the mezuzah and put money in the pushke (box for charity) enough times, no harm would come to my family if I indulged in a little narcissism.

Turns out I didn’t need to say “keynahora”, kiss anything or anyone because the Evil Eye got the last laugh.

Background:  I have silvery hair, and have taken to “glamming out” a little (earrings, lipstick, scarves, jewelry) to balance the harshness of “going gray”.

TWICE tonight at the gym, men who are easily 20-25 years older than me were checking me out.  I noticed they tried to meet my gaze and I looked back to see if they needed something.  Seeing that they were holding my gaze, I turned around to see if there was someone else intended for the gaze.  Just my reflection.  Uh oh, I think.  I am gray but I could be your daughter.  Eeeeeewwwwww.  Besides, you are at the gym either because you were too speculative in the last years and need to continue to work (greed is a boomerang) or you are just here to check out the women (shame on you because, statistically speaking, you have a wife at home with sagging arms).  In either case, I don’t date MEN — and therefore men on social security — and I am married (as much as one can be in New York) to woman with whom I have a family.  And does Medicare pay for that Viagra?

The other thing I noticed is that all young women (gay or straight) have tattoos just above the cracks of their tushies, and they make sure those tattoos are visible to all by wearing revealing gym wear.  (I can look.)  You can tell the non-straight girls because they are doing military pull ups and the really hard kind of push-ups.  And some don’t even have that ooky muscled-up with no breasts look.  But I digress.

The harsh truth that hit me is no girl was even glancing in my direction.  So, what I am saying is that women may gender-bend, but they don’t generation-bend, although I look fabulous for 50 (I am 46-almost 47).

So, I didn’t need protection from the Evil Eye.  I need protection from REALITY.