When 30 is Even Too Old for an 80-year-old Man

Today I ventured into a Shoe Cobbler's right here in glamourous Beverly Hills. My boot high "heel" had broken off just as I got out of the elevator on my work floor (damn H&M, cheap things). What a way to start a day! All I could think about was getting the shoe repaired. So, in the typical fashion of this neighborhood, I called five cobblers to see if they could pick up and deliver (I didn't have the time, I was working for goodness sake!!!). I even considered calling Messenger Service to pick up my shoes, drop them off, pick them up, and bring back to me. I mean what is a girl to do at work with a broken heel.
Go do it herself. So, as I walk into the Cobbler's shop I smile at a cute, little, shriveled up, old, I mean REALLY OLD, man. He was dressed to the nine. He was NOT the Cobbler.
I handed my shoe to the grumpy and grungy Cobbler (must be the owner's grandson) and he grunted, "Both". Reluctantly, I handed him both boots and now stood in my black skinnies with my white, gym socks, INSIDE OUT. Oops, I didn't think I would have to take off my boots, let alone in a Beverly Hills shop. I took a seat next to the old man and shuffled my feet next to his and said, "Looks like we're both just in sockies". He gives me a huge grin, shining perfect white teeth. If they were dentures, they were great, they looked like real teeth. See what money can buy...and I think that very thing was on his mind, for me, because next thing you know he was firing questions at me.
"What is your nationality?"
"Are you married?"
"No, you're engaged, is he rich?"
"Do you have tattoos?" (which I had on a jacket, so there's no way he even saw one of mine peaking out)
 At this point, I was like, "Whoa, old man, why all the questions?" I could not help but notice at this point that, at the top of his bald head, were tons of scabs and scaley skin, much like old, OLD people get. Yet, I answered his question and he shook his head (TSK, TSK) and said that Jewish people cannot be buried in a Jewish cemetery if they have tattoos (good thing I'm not Jewish, or even Catholic for that matter).  Really, Old Man, what are you getting at here, I was thinking.
Thankfully, his shoes were ready and he slipped on his expensive, Italian leather loafers. Then he turned to me, walked right up to my chair and cupped my chin in his hand and just shook it admiringly.
"Why, why you have tattoos?"
"I was young. That was 12 years ago."
PAUSE
"You're in your 30's?"
I nodded.
"Bah!"
Then he waved me off, like "You're no good," and walked right out.
My jaw dropped to the floor. Suddenly the cute young girl, who this Hugh Hefner practically was asking to marry him so he could have a caretaker and young breasts to stare at to get his Viagra working, was no longer worthy of his affection. I mean, ladies, I could have inherited a fortune! Okay, so, IF I was single, yes; if I was Jewish, maybe; if I didn't have tattoos, ok yeah; but moreso, IF I was in my FUCKING twenties. I guess, ladies, men with his life experience know what happens to our bodies when we hit our 30s. It doesn't matter how cute and young my face looks, I was well past the due date and had reached total expiration.
Once upon a time I worked for a wealthy surgeon in his 70s- hair implants, dentures, fake tan, designer jeans with all those squiggly things on the back pockets and buttons. I mean who was he kidding. But when I told him my mom wasn't dating anyone as a suggested hint, he scoffed and said, "I don't touch women over 30."
He didn't even say "date", he said, "touch."
Are these old men FOR REAL! I mean...LOOK AT THEM!
And so Old Man was long gone by now and my boots were finally ready. Wow, they were like new! Suddenly, I felt the same way! The grumpy and grungy Cobbler had my attention and now he was being happy and kind, of course he knew nothing of my age. And so he only charged me $7 for practically a new pair of shoes. I thanked him kindly, and with a smile he said, "Have a great weekend!"
I walked out of there feeling like a brand new pair of shoes myself after initially having a bruised ego from being so insulted by the Old Man. I may be 30, but obviously I can get away with looking younger. What does that say about my bad ass? I've repaired myself much like the cobbler repaired my shoes, in ways that- fuck you all old men- I look better than I ever did in my 20s, and it's A LA NATURAL! So there M*$@!$ F#$%((S!!!!