Fifty-nine is such an awkward age. In my mind I’m a slender twenty-something, long slender legs, perky breasts, etc., etc. In reality, I’m a slightly overweight, almost 60 year-old grandmother with an expanding waistline and flabby upper arms.
Sometimes my mind orders clothes off the internet that my reality can’t wear. Take these lovely skirts from Darn Good Yarn:
Made from recycled saris, they’re reversible and pretty much one-size-fits-all. My mind was so sure I was going to look like a bohemian darling. My reality said, “Nope. Nope. Nope.”
So now what? I guess I could take them to a consignment shop, but I’m not crazy about either of the ones I know about in Tallahassee. Maybe I could have someone make pillows out of them?
Next time my mind tries to talk me into something like this I’m going to tell it to take a hike. But then, maybe it already has.
I’d just left Chicken Salad Chick where I’d enjoyed the Cranberry Kelly and a side of grape salad. The day, sunshiny and Forida-perfect, insisted that I take a stroll and pop into the shops in a strip mall on Market Street in Tallahassee.
With no agenda, no cash, and all my credit cards gone to live with a bunch of nasty thieves, I truly was merely window shopping.
I was dressed casually–cropped jeans and a soft white tshirt, flip flops. As I headed back to my car I saw a well-dressed woman walking toward me on the sidewalk. I smiled. I always smile, I can’t help it.
She began laughing. Not a happy laugh, an insulting laugh, like, “Lady, who do you think you are?”
As she passed, close enough to touch, she looked me up and down. Now I’m wondering if I have food on my face (it wouldn’t be the first time) or a breast exposed (it could happen) or perhaps I’ve developed a unicorn type appendage between my eyes (not likely, but might be worth a snicker).
As soon as I got to my car I flipped the visor down to check my image in the mirror. Ok, I’m no beauty, but I couldn’t see a thing to laugh about. Well, my hair was a bit Dumb and Dumber-ish, but still….
I needed to stop at a grocery store for a couple of items on my way home, so once I entered the store I made a beeline for the ladies room. Again, America’s Next Top Model isn’t going to be calling any time soon, but I looked like an average 59-year-old grandmother with a touch of hippie grunge.
So why did this stranger feel the need to laugh at me? I want to track her down and ask. Why does it bother me that she laughed? Insecurity? Curiosity?
Regardless, it was unnerving. Like that Denzel Washington movie, “Fallen,” where the devil keeps possessing different people, jumping from one host to another, singing The Rolling Stones’ Time is on My Side.
40 And the King will answer and say to them, ‘Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.’
One of my best friends in this old world lives near Champaign, Illinois. She and her husband are in the process of relocating to the east coast. This morning I received the following email from her and laughed so hard I snorted coffee out of my nose. With my friend’s permission, I’m sharing with you. Enjoy.
Do you need a laugh? If so, read on. . . Last Friday morning at 6 a.m., I went out in my bath robe (fairly short – with nothing underneath since I had just taken a shower and hadn’t bothered
to go to my drawer to pull out undies. After all, I’m on my own in the house!).
Anyway, I tried to open the front door after getting the paper only to discover that I was locked out! The Realtor had been in the house the day before and must have locked both locks. We usually only lock the dead bolt. No problem! We have a keyless pad to open the garage door. However, since I’ve been living alone, I’ve been locking the door between the garage and house at night. Why didn’t I ever hide a key in the garage?!?
Needless to say, I was locked out at 6 a.m. with no undies, no phone, no car keys, no clock. . . I waited what seemed to be an hour (but was really about 1.25 hr.) before knocking on the neighbor’s door (our State Farm Agent). I didn’t want to wake anyone up at 6:00 a.m.
I used the neighbor’s phone to call the number on the For Sale sign in my yard. However, that was the real estate office number and the message stated that the office would open at 8:00 a.m. I put in an emergency plea anyway for someone to help out a client in a bath robe.
Then the neighbor remember that the dad of their daughter’s friend in Mahomet was a real estate agent. They gave him a call and he came over at 7:30 to let me in. Luckily, the lock box with a key was still outside the house, so any realtor could access the key. Yes, I sat in my garage for 1.5 hours in a bathrobe! Good thing I didn’t have to pee! Seriously, that would only happen to me. However, any chance this sounds like something that would happen to you?
She knows me well. It’s a miracle I haven’t had this happen to me.
Normally I’m a Pollyanna sort, but the events of this past week have me feeling more like Maleficent. Let me count the ways:
My car window was smashed in while I was swimming at a local park.
My favorite handbag, the one I bargained for entirely in Spanish on my visit to a mercado in La Antigua de Guatemala, was stolen.
My credit cards were used in questionable locations. At least the thieves are interesting.
My passport is gone, along with my driver’s license, insurance, and prescription cards, etc.
I’ve made more phone calls in the past four days to take care of this stuff than I’ve had to make in the last four years. I could have built and furnished a three story treehouse in the time I’ve spent on hold.
I had day surgery which, while not related to the robbery, sure didn’t make me feel like a princess.
I have enough intestinal gas to power a small fleet of cars.
My completed “buy ten massages, get one free” card was in my stolen handbag. This might piss me off more than all the other losses combined. I NEED that massage.
I just dropped a 32 oz. diet Dr. Pepper in the driver’s side floor of Studly Doright’s pickup truck. He’s already angry at me for the loss of my purse, so I need to go and clean up my mess.
I know Pollyanna is still in here somewhere, but I might need to exorcise the villain first.
I was shocked and a little disappointed that no one attended my colonoscopy party this morning. Studly Doright reminded me that I didn’t actually put a date, time, or location on my invitation, though, so I suppose I only have myself to blame.
With no one but Studly by my side I checked into a local surgical center at the crack of dawn for the procedure that was scheduled to begin at 5:45 a.m. Apparently half of the 55 and older population of Tallahassee and surrounding counties were having procedures at the same time and place, for the waiting area filled quickly.
Studly made me refrain from asking if they were there to celebrate with me. Sometimes he can be such a fuddy duddy.
My name was called right on time and along with Studly I was escorted to a tiny curtained cubicle. Apparently privacy isn’t a concern in this center for we could hear every word of conversation from both sides, including the woman who kept asking loudly if she could use, and I quote, “the shitter.”
That’s why, when the nurse asked me if Studly was my husband, I answered in an exaggerated whisper, “Oh, he’s not my husband. He’s my lover.”
Instantly there was silence all around us. The nurse took down the rest of my information warily. I behaved, though, knowing that soon she’d be inserting a needle for my I.V.
My veins are incredibly small. Normally I remember to caution nurses that baby-sized needles work best on me. Unfortunately after two nights of little sleep and paltry nourishment I forgot to mention that little tidbit that might’ve saved me ten minutes of agony as she poked and prodded my right arm in search of a vein.
Finally a savior in the form of Nurse “K” floated in, declared I needed a smaller needle and quickly had me ready to roll. They wheeled me into a surgical suite where I listened to the nurses gossip as they awaited the doctor’s arrival.
Part of me wanted to tell them I found their babble terribly unprofessional while another part of me knew they’d soon be controlling and monitoring my vital functions. I kept my mouth shut.
Once the doctor came in drugs were administered and I was out. I vaguely remember some pressure and movement, but other than that I knew nothing until around noon, even though Studly took me to eat around 8:30 a.m. because I’d told him I was ravenous. Apparently I had French toast and bacon. I sure hope it was good.
I’ve slept on and off throughout the day. My stomach is tender, and I don’t know how to phrase this delicately, but I’ve farted like a constipated rhinoceros all afternoon.
Apparently the doctor removed a small polyp to be sent away for analysis. He even sent me home with a photo of it. Should I frame it? Display it with the photos of the grandkids? I’d have bid polyp adieu if I’d been conscious. It had better behave itself out in the lab.
I’m tired now, having been awake for more than ten consecutive minutes. Please don’t feel guilty about missing the shindig. Chances are I wouldn’t have known you were here.
Made from recycled saris, they’re reversible and pretty much one-size-fits-all. My mind was so sure I was going to look like a bohemian darling. My reality said, “Nope. Nope. Nope.”
Praying for Eyebrowz 