My, Oh My

For some reason I’ve been getting ads for internet dating sites. I’ve wondered if some of the google searches I embarked on while writing my little romance novel triggered the algorithm for “MatureLove.Com” or something similarly inappropriate for a married woman to be perusing. Whatever the reason, the ads have been interesting.

This first guy hardly looks to be in his senior years, but I sure wouldn’t ask him for his birth certificate. If Studly weren’t my one true love I might’ve had to look him up.

Then there’s this guy:

He’s awfully cute, but still a bit young for me.

In this third photo, we finally get a bit closer to my decade.

Still, he looks like he’s just finished listing all the side effects I might expect from a new medication: diarrhea, weight gain, risk of stroke, diabetes, and anemia. I believe I’ll pass.

I always wonder with these ads what the actual guys might look like.

Captain America? Be still, my heart. Heh.
Enjoys long walks on a Florida beach. At high noon, in the middle of summer.

Peace, people!

You Know You’ve Matured When…

Sixty-two is a comfortable age. Most days I feel every year of it, but occasionally I believe I could still dance ’til all hours with no morning after consequences. Still other days I might as well be crocheting blankets in an assisted living facility. Such is life at 62.

Now maturity is a different matter altogether. Even though I’m nearing the 63 mark, I don’t often act or feel mature. I still enjoy roller coasters and haunted houses. I tell juvenile jokes and delight in Studly Doright’s goofy charm.

Yesterday, though, I realized that I might have turned a corner in the maturity game.

We had an issue with our satellite feed and had to call a service guy out to fix it. In retrospect, this man was extremely good looking: Tall with broad shoulders, high cheekbones, long dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, chiseled features. Kind of the whole physical package.

(Similar to the guy below, but fully clothed.)

But what did I notice during his visit? That he tracked in dirt with his size 12 boots. I was too busy cleaning up behind him to notice how hot he was until after he’d left. What the heck happened to me?

After the guy was gone I told Studly Doright how miffed I was that the service man had left dirt on my carpets. He gave me a hug and said, “That’s my girl.” I’m not sure how to take that.

Peace, people.

A Long Way, Baby

I’ve come a long way, baby,
Still got a long way to go.
Every time I think I’m there,
I find myself laid low

Try to rise above the hate,
Ignore the arrows and slings.
They go low, I try going high,
But, damn, their insults sting.

These days of alternate truths,
Lies, if truth be told,
Just wear me out in spirit,
Got me feeling old

But I have come a long way
And I’ll keep traveling on
The road often will be rough
And I’ve got skills to hone.

The Invisible Woman

She waved her arms, jumped up and down, but not a single person noticed, even though there were plenty near.

Her bold orange blouse and flamboyant floral jodhpurs, a sight to behold for those who might’ve seen, had

They bothered. A certain age had rendered her transparent, of no apparent interest to the world at large. Their loss,

She thought, launching into a power ballad that threatened to shatter windows. Except no one was listening.

We Do Everything Right (So Why Am I So Sad?)

We don’t head to the beach on the 4th of July

We know better after all of these years.

We don’t stay out late on Saturday nights

Indulging in silliness, downing our beer.

We avoid crowded places, concerts, and games,

The stressors outweighing the fun.

No more jostling with shoppers for bargains

Online shopping gets everything done.

Theater movies we seldom attend

The prices and people too much

On Demand provides our viewing now

Yet I feel so out of touch.

Just once in awhile I believe

We should pretend to be much less together:

Go play in the rain, drink a carafe of wine

Brave the crowds in all kinds of weather.

We do such sensible stuff in our sensible lives

So why does that make me so sad?

Perhaps I am not meant to be sensible

Perhaps I’m to be slightly mad.

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