Yes, Ma'am.

It’s a new dawn. It’s a new day!

I am lighter, freer and more hopeful than I’ve been in four years! What a feeling! Except for one thing.

I just turned 55.

Sigh.

Joe Biden is only 23 years older than me. That may sound like a lot but when I was 22, I dated a man who was 50. It was just one date. Tragically, I saw that his ass had multiple saggy skin folds, like a Roman shade of ass. And if you’re asking how I saw his ass if I only dated him once, I say, WHAT ARE YOU, A FUCKING SLEUTH??!! Go read some John Le Carré, for fuck’s sake!!!

Anyway.

I’ve been a lot of ages but this one is different, and not just because I could date our oldest President. Which I wouldn’t because I have mad respect for Dr. Biden. And besides, Joe’s not my type: I always dated narcissistic assholes. Speaking of: How’s Florida, Melania?

No, this age is different because the age in my head doesn’t square with the age on my driver’s license. Or my AARP card. I still feel like I’m 28. Except for those hot flashes that melt the buttons right off my Chico’s blouse.

Maybe I feel more like 34, but a young 34, with a skip in my step. A skip, I now realize, that could fracture my fragile, porous heelbone. I adore actress/osteoporosis pitchwoman, Blythe Danner, and would eagerly get an osteoporosis shot with her any day of the week - provided it involved dirty martinis and a pack of Marlboro Lites - but I’m still feeling more like Gwyneth than Blythe…and if I’m honest, there are days I feel more like Apple than Gwyneth. Except for the grey pubic hair. And my Zabar’s tote bag.

I routinely find myself in conversations about statins and bunions. Hello? Didn’t I follow the Grateful Dead around like 10 minutes ago? Wasn’t it just yesterday that I made out with Judd Nelson in the bathroom of Canastel’s? You remember dreamy Judd Nelson. No… Nelson. No, not from Taxi. That’s Judd HIRSCH! Did you really think…aww, forget it.

There was a moment I didn’t see coming – maybe because I left my reading glasses at CVS picking up a plantar fasciitis brace – but somewhere, the phrase, “Would you like me to start a fitting room for you, Miss?” morphed into, “We have other sizes downstairs, ma'am.”

Ma'am? When did I become a ma'am???

And when did my jeans become slacks?

When did wicking become something I look for in bedsheets?

Why do I own six bottles of stool softeners?

Did you REALLY think I made out with Judd Hirsch?

My favorite news anchor is Norah O’Donnell – the mother on every ABC After School Special – who, I just found out, is only 47. How am I older than Norah O’Donnell? She’s so much more mature. So grown-up. Like a woman who doesn’t dream of taking her bra off at a dinner party and wearing it on the outside of her blouse while dancing with a man who isn’t her husband and throwing her bra at the head of the most uptight woman at the party, who, as it turns out, is the wife of the dancing man.

[Yes, that’s a very specific example which I could say I made up, except for the photos. Which are exceptional really, because once you get past that whole bra-blouse thing, my arms look incredibly toned.]

I have no age-appropriate hobbies, like needlepoint or knitting. I don’t play canasta, ballroom dance or garden. I watch “1,000-Lb. Sisters” and do crossword puzzles because they’re good for my brain, particularly for my memory. But I don’t have any age-appropriate hobbies, like needlepoint or knitting. I can’t remember if I told you that already.

So I’m not feeling 55. But thanks to President Biden, Vice-President Harris, Amanda Gorman, Dr. Fauci, Bernie Sanders memes, the resurrection of press conferences and remembrances, democracy, honor and decency, am I feeling good?

Yes, ma'am.