Due to deference, default, death, or just plain sucky circumstances, I am a Matriarch. No, not A matriarch – THE MATRIARCH.
Now, mind you, this is not a position I sought after or campaigned for. No. No. This triumphant metamorphosis was thrust upon me unbidden. I am reluctantly perched atop this peak. I am the dominant clan member, the titular head of the family, the woman of veneration to the posse, the Apex Enforcer to those in a direct line of descent.
I am glaringly unqualified. One must matriculate before ascending this summit. One can assume the mantle only under the most rigorous of specific pre-conditions. I reiterate. I am lacking in credentials.
These conditions include but are not limited to the following:
1. Maturity. One must be ripe with mellow warmth, sweetness and a soft, squishy center – like a pear haloed in fruit flies, just before it’s consigned to the trash can.
2. The very word, “matriarch,” conjures visions of rounded shoulders, ladies distinguished as dowdy, frumpy, slightly disheveled, and sportin’ radioactive temple breath.
3. When I think of Matriarch, I think of Queen Elizabeth, the Monarch of Great Britain, a staid and grand lady, slightly bent and forever carrying a purse. Or Dame Maggie Smith, the Dowager Emeritus of Downton Abbey, who spits so many rapid-fire put-downs in ever-so proper English, she nearly busts her tightly-corseted bustier and saturates the atmosphere with cryptic and cutting candor. There is nothing like a dame!
4. Finally, a matriarch must be set in her ways, unyielding in her preferences, bellicose, like a gargoyle from every pinnacle of the mansion.
Not me. That’s simply not me.
However, I passed a mirror. That brought a flood of unattractive and shabby reflections. The more I thought about it, the more I realized maybe, just maybe, I am rather set in my ways. I do have preferences that, when violated, I take offense. I can be provoked into spontaneous combustion and have been known to emit warning sounds reminiscent of the Madagascar hissing cockroach.
So I made a list of things I like and things I don’t like. Sure enough…my age is betrayed by carbon dating. I am stubborn. I am set in my ways. But they are the only true and living ways, so I stick by them without apology.
Pronouncement: All leaders, in order to be truly great, should have ovaries. It’s better to endure hot flashes than nuclear melt-down.
So here is my catalogue, my personal inventory, the laundry list of things that could trigger carpet bombing necessitating first-responders should anyone risk death by stupidity for perpetuating my displeasure.
Things I don’t like:
Halloween, haunted houses, hash tags, Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Gangnam, old movies, harvest time, Rafa Nadal.
TV Awards programs, reality shows, prune juice.
Bubble gum, platinum blond hair, wedding dresses, soccer games when I have DNA playing on the team.
Naked royals, cannibals, Geico ads, politics.
Ethics, Lincoln, Coke Zero, Rafa Nadal.
Prune juice, TV ads for products with animated characters of mucus, constipation, or toenail fungus, shots, politics, Kardashians, and mean people.
Good books, Henry IV Part I, nice people, more Coke Zero (It’s now been de-criminalized.)
I suppose I have come to terms with my new identity. I am qualified. I am set in my ways.
Ovaries, Unite! Matriarchs should rule the world. It’s the most efficient use of leadership. It is the way the universe was designed.
Advice to those who would appease the Apex Matriarch: Adhere to the Stockholm Syndrome – identify with the beast, and no one gets hurt.