Only a few weeks remain until the “mandatory” 50th high school class reunion. Mandatory does not refer just to attendance, no matter where you live, but you must also compete for the most successful, most beautiful, most hunky, most prestigious degree, and who can still Twist and Rock Around the Clock.
Grandchildren and great-grandchildren are discussed in whispers. Even though we’re all 68, we are not “old enough” to have such people in our lives. Some of us play tennis, golf and pickle ball, or say we do. The guys talk about their football heroics, not mentioning this is on the Fantasy League.
I can’t speak for everyone, but my mental acuity has slipped just a bit. From being above average, I now have to stop, think and hope I find the word I’m looking for so I can sound as intelligent as my much younger supervisors. Like many others my age, I’m retired but still working.
A few days of ago several of us had a farewell party for a coworker. When the bill came it had basic charges at the top, several paragraphs of text that no one read, then way at the bottom was the suggested tip and signature line.
Because of the huge gap between meal details and the tip/total section I became confused. Luckily, my twenty-something supervisor was sitting next to me and helped me decipher the receipt. I told her, “Don’t tell my boss I can’t read. She might fire me.” She assured me that as long as I can count change, I’ll still have a job. I signed the receipt, stuffed the credit card into my wallet and handed the folder back to the wait staff.
Soon another bill was presented to me, for the same items. I began to wonder what was going on. My supervisor looked at the bill, compared it to my credit card and assured me it was mine. Looking in my wallet I realized I had an extra credit card. I passed it down the table and went through the payment procedure again. This time I remembered how the system worked. Whew!!
Now that I’ve covered my still superior IQ, I want to talk about the “still beautiful” part. Not to brag, but I need full head-to-toe Spanx with old-fashioned rubber girdle reinforcement. By the time I get all the body parts to stop jiggling and drooping, I’ll have enough body armor to compete in the local police terrorism training. Actually, I’m willing to bet I could compete at any of the military installations in this area.
Can you imagine those young service members’ faces as this old woman wrapped in Spanx and rubber girdles walks through a hail of bullets, calling out “I’m rubber. You’re glue. What you shoot at me will bounce back and stick on you.” Meanwhile, they will be in full body armor, ducking and firing from protected positions.
My hair can look young again with the help of my local salon professional. She can wax my brows and upper lip and tint my hair to its former, glorious coppery strands. She can add “fillers” and extensions to make my hair look as thick as it was many years ago. I’m counting on her to weave so tightly that all my sagging facial parts are back in their 18-year-old position.
Guys, you might not get this, but any woman of our generation will know exactly what I’m saying. Our mothers braided our hair so tightly we thought our eye lashes grew from our brow line and our eyelids reached almost to our ears.
See, just a few minor touch-ups and I’ll be 18 again.
© by Sharon D. Dillon, May 25, 2014