The Crone's Throne
Every crone deserves a throne of her own. Mine happens to be in a goth coffee shop recommended by my astrologer.
The throne isn’t fancy or ornate. It looks like it has been thrifted—several times. The red velvet is worn, and the once thick cushion has flattened in front from the many butts that have appreciated it over the years. It is just the right size to sit cross legged with a backpack next to you while you type on a laptop or to curl up with a good book and your Tower of London Fog Tea.
The throne is positioned next to a bookcase covered in tarot cards and fliers for bands and events. It has a front-row view of the shop’s “haunted museum” featuring porcelain dolls who seem to always be staring at you, a Victorian era little boy’s sailor suit, animal bones, and lots of pictures of “ghosts” aka small orbs on pictures that are likely just dust.
The walls and ceilings are black with lighting that is somehow both creepy and friendly. The only pops of color in the shop are the red doors, red velvet chairs, the floor to ceiling bookshelves on one wall, and the subtly placed rainbow flags to signal all are welcome. Despite the darkness, the place feels comfy cozy. It is exactly my kind of nerdiness and audacity.
Whenever I sink into my throne’s worn-out cushioning, I feel myself immediately exhale and unclench things I didn’t even realize were clenched. During life’s stressful moments, I close my eyes and pretend I am sitting on this throne and I start counting down the days until I can perch atop it again.
Yes, this throne is in a shared space. Yes, the shared space is a quirky coffee shop in a college-town 40 miles away from my home. Yes, I am old enough to be the mother of all the students who frequent the shop. Yes, when the students do notice me (invisibility is the crone’s best superpower) they probably assume I am one of the professors at their school.
They are partly right. I am a professor…of medicine…in two different medical schools about 40 miles away.
The first time I came here, I felt so awkward I almost walked right back out. I was wearing a brightly colored dress that was almost blinding against the black of the shop. I felt endlessly uncool despite the purple highlights in my hair that were too edgy for my day job as a geriatrician. As I waited for my drink, I tentatively explored the museum and the kitschy items for sale.
Then, I sat on the chair.
I call it a chair because I had not yet embarked on my journey to cronedom and claimed it as my rightful throne.
The chair enveloped me like a warm hug. It is what brought me back to the coffee shop nearly weekly. It was during one of those many visits to the chair that my crone awakening began.
I was cuddled up in my soon-to-be throne, cackling with glee as I read a book about embracing your crone era and trying to determine your crone personality.
Before even finishing the first chapter, it hit me like Baba Yaga’s flying mortar and pestle, my inner crone had already emerged.
My crone is pretty bad ass.
My crone is the one who kept bringing me back here. She is the one who claimed the chair as her rightful throne.
She had always been with me, but she had been silenced since birth by internalized societal expectations, by the drive to prove my worth through achievement, and by compulsively caring for everyone but myself.
After decades of disuse, her voice is shaky and inconsistent. She surprises me at times with her level of IDGAF. But not nearly as much as she surprises those around me who are used to the version of me before the mask started to slip. The version of me that kept the crone bound and gagged in the depths of my subconscious.
As I dove further into the crone book, I reached the chapter on crone clothing and makeup. I suddenly felt compelled to change my outsides to match my new crone insides. I was inspired by a brief profile of Endora from Bewitched. Memories of her big beautiful blue eye makeup, colorful caftans, and total disdain for the banal came flooding back.
On my way home, I bought all new bright eye makeup and eagerly applied it. Instead of looking chic like Endora, I wound up with an eye infection and looking like Sloth from the Goonies. It turns out my crone style is more ‘Hey You Guys’ than bold blue eyes. But true cronehood is more than skin [infection] deep.
Zoom ahead about 3 months. Today, I am sitting atop my throne, makeup-less, wearing my lighted reading glasses, and writing this post. As I place my tea on the bookshelf next to me, the barista sweeping the floor pauses, leans on her broom and compliments my glasses—again. She does this each time I am here. I’m not sure if she recognizes me, but she is consistent in her love for my combo headlight/glasses. Crones can be visible and invisible at the same time.
Today happens to be the first time I have been in the coffee shop in the light of day. I normally come here in the evenings. Despite being a crone at heart, I am still a mother who can only escape once a week after bedtime.
The daytime clientele is different than the evening group. There is a mother ordering coffee while her 4-year-old daughter dances to The Cure. There is a group of “boys” in their upper 20s who stopped here on their way to tube on the nearby river. There is a man playing Magic the Gathering at a table next to me telling his friend that he is taking his dad to the neurologist tomorrow to be evaluated for dementia.
But by far, the most interesting clientele to me, are the women of a certain age.
As a geriatrician—an internal medicine doctor specializing in the care of older adults—observation, recognizing subtlety, and identifying and assisting in life-transitions are my superpowers. Couple this with my crone-invisibility-power and I’m practically a spy in the making. Which is why I can’t stop watching the women of a certain age who keep walking through the door.
Unlike the college kids, these women come in alone. Some have downcast eyes, hunched shoulders, and only speak in a whisper. Others have shifty eyes, are jumpy, and laugh just a little too loudly and uncomfortably. All appear to deeply desire and to fear eye contact at the same time. I recognize their loneliness, their anxiety—and sometimes the fact that they should really be using a cane.
I see they are at a threshold, not just the one to the haunted museum, and they are trying to decide if they are willing and able to cross it. They are trying to (re)discover themselves. They don’t feel like they belong here, and they probably feel that way in their regular life too. Their longing to enjoy this space, explore, and express their interest is just as palpable as the weight of the thousands of shoulds weighing them down. “I shouldn’t be here because I’m…too old…a mom…a professional…dressed wrong…don’t know enough about it...etc.”
I’ve been there too.
My crone is still trying to teach me to stop shoulding all over myself.
I do my best to catch their eyes and smile. Some see me and smile back. All but one scuttle away after picking up their order. She strides through the threshold of the museum confidently and examines everything in it. She eventually settles at a table with her Poison Apple Cider and pulls out her crocheting. We smile at each other. Crones recognize other crones. She sits until she finishes a granny square with a huge purple daisy in the middle, gathers her stuff, smiles at me again, and walks out the door.
Whether you have stepped into your crone power or not, this Substack is a place to explore this misunderstood and underappreciated era in life. Subscribe to walk through the threshold with me. Claim your crone powers. Every crone deserves a throne of her own.