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I’m too Young to be
this Old
This is the tentative title of what may be my next book,
subtitled, “The Humor and Heartache of Mental Pause ®.” I have
some 50 vignettes about the exasperating vicissitudes of
menopause and aging in general, which I will share with you
monthly.
Let’s start with the
above concept: I’m too young to be this old.
Really, aren’t we simply a wrinkled old bag still filled with
the candy of our childhood? Just because your breasts have
covered your mid-drift (thus, making you look fatter than you’ve
already become) doesn’t mean you don’t still get shamed like a
child, have childhood fantasies and feel, at your core, well,
frisky.
I must admit, though,
without hormone replacement my sexual friskiness has gone the
way of the T-Rex.
I’ll give you an
example: I had tea with a rambunctious 60-something-year-old
(maybe - she won’t tell her age) who can afford to have herself
sculpted to look like a babe. Anyway, she wanted to go pick up
on men at this golf club. I told her I am
asexual. I have
been there, done that, with too many men, plus two divorces and
one broken engagement, and I have not one iota of interest in
the male species – and I mean this, they are another species.
Anyway, as I wait for
her I look around and see this table of saggy-faced, red-nosed
(from too many hot toddies), cigar-crunching duffers. (Men! If
you are reading this, please understand that this is going to be
a tongue-in-cheek column and you must bear the brunt of the
jokes. But I love (some of) ya, really I do!)
As I was saying, they
were a sorry lot, and I can only imagine that she meant we would
pick up on these guys’ caddies. We spent a good two hours
dissing men, all the while her glittering eyes slowly panning
the room. But the catch of the day never materialized.
Afterward, I changed
into my dirty sweats and scuffed up Reeboks for an Oceanside
walk. It was a heroic act, as when I had awoken that morning I
had had to crawl out of bed to my microwave to get a heating pad
warmed up to put on my arthritic back.
Anyhoo, I finally
managed to get it in gear and was I not sorry. Boats nodded to
one another in the bay, bright sails slapping. The aloe plant
was in full bloom with those crimson flowers poking into the
cloud-dappled sky; it was patriotic just to look up at the red,
white and blue. And, pipping around the bushes, were these
butter-splashed vireos with black-encircled eyes, gleaming down
at me.
At walk’s end, I
devoured a delectable sandwich from Goodie’s, PG’s premiere
delicatessen. The three-seed bread was brimming with the most
mouth-watering chicken salad, topped with thinly sliced, crisp,
pippin apples.
“This is as good as it
gets!” I mused. “I don’t need a man. I’ve got a good book to
read, my cats, friends, career, writing and passion for nature.
I live in the Garden of Eden (and good eatin’). I’ve made more
chaos and mayhem in my drinking and carousing days than 20
women. I know having a lot of material stuff is not all it’s
cracked up to be. I’m satisfied.”
Then I thought, “OK,
maybe I AM old enough to be this old . . .” |
