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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 . . .”  



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