| Humor Non-Fiction posted April 20, 2015 |
  |
laughing at myself
Sixty-Five and Counting
by Spiritual Echo
I've had a change of heart this week, a rarity, because as older folks know, we're always right. Trying to justify how I could be so sure of my convictions, then switch to another side, was difficult until I convinced myself there were extenuating circumstances that brought new information to light. So there! I was right last week and I'm right now.
Fortunately, I had no witnesses to my debate therefore I may continue to fool myself into thinking that I am a wise woman who has a handle on things.
Last week, I was more pensive about rolling into the status of senior citizen. Over the weekend, I've started to notice some benefits.
Forget about discounts and early bird specials, by adapting exaggerated characteristics of a doddering old broad, I had a stranger buy me a cup of coffee and another load my groceries into the trunk of my car without asking.
Do you remember standing in line behind someone who was counting out change for a purchase? Yup, Mr. 'I'm-in-a-hurry' reached over with his crisp ten-dollar bill and treated me at the donut shop.
The zigzag steering of my shopping cart was accidental--really it was. I was admiring the man's shiny, brand new car, distracted I was, when he jumped between the cart and his vehicle. He acted as if he didn't trust me with anything on wheels, and not only did he put the bags in the trunk, he rushed to return the cart to the storage bay. I drove off, feeling somewhat smug that he got to keep the quarter tip from the coin return.
But, of course, I knew exactly what I was doing, and returned home to practice smiling in the mirror. I've been trying to perfect the 'sweet-old-lady' smile for two days. This is a hard one, as my usual look of unmitigated disgust needed to be wiped off my face first. Tough--when it's almost chiselled into my facial expression.
While I was staring in the mirror, I noticed a long hair. Absent-mindedly, I tried to brush it off my shoulder and damn near strangled myself. The thing--just one solitary hair--was growing out of my neck. How did I miss that--all six inches?
I took inventory while in the lavatory, (such a lovely old-fashioned word) and devoted a good ten minutes pulling my skin back to see what I might look like with a face-lift, but dismissing that notion. I made a mental note to ask my dermatologist about Botox--still not out of the question.
In the end, I threw on some lipstick and trundled over to a tea party being held by a neighbour celebrating her fiftieth birthday. Now, honestly, I thought the idea of a tea party was a perpetual joke, something reminiscent of speak-easies in the 1920s, when gin was served in tea cups to give the appearance of compliance to prohibition. Imagine my surprise when her granite kitchen counter was decorated with a dozen bone china cups and saucers. Not only that, the tea pot was 'wearing' a tea-cozy. I swear I came this close to being a smart-ass when I asked if the hostess crocheted these little coats herself. She glowed with pride! So close, but I escaped by using the smile I practiced.
Not a drop of wine in sight. But by the time grace was said, I had it figured out. Not only were all the other women members of the church my neighbour attends, they were Baptists. I have to say, they were an outstanding group of women, and I had no problem finding common ground. What should probably be expected in their shared faith, was a lot of talk about Jesus. Now, as much as I believe in God, and am respectful of all faiths, I found it somewhat disconcerting that each conversation led back to religion. It was a 50th birthday party, for goodness sake. Don't younger women bitch about their husbands and brag about their kids anymore?
While discussing the course of feminism over the fifty years of my neighbour's life, one woman asked me a question. "Don't you believe Jesus was the first feminist?
Sure, time to leave, but all the way down the street, the old joke kept running through my head.
Question: "Do you know why Baptists avoid alcohol and sex?"
Answer: "It leads to dancing."
I had a second party to attend, my grandson's family birthday luncheon. The next day, when I pulled into my son's driveway, I wondered if anyone would notice my new demeanor.
When offered wine, I gave that sixty-something smile of mine, and asked if tea was being served. Hell, nobody even laughed. The kettle was immediately plugged in, and rummaging in the pantry for tea bags commenced.
Now, the advice most often shared with me when I fessed up and wrote an essay last week about turning sixty-five, was to be myself and celebrate doing the things I want. To a degree, that's good counsel, but I have always been a cynic and somewhat sarcastic woman, and while in my pensive mode, I considered a personality make-over, perhaps exposing a sweeter side--if there is one.
I will continue to monitor and take note to see if the old adage about honey attracting flies, or is it bees, holds up, and give serious consideration to the other stand-by: 'If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.'
In the meantime, I have allocated fifteen minutes a day to practice my new facial expression. I can report honestly, I've almost erased the snarl. I bet Botox would help.
I've had a change of heart this week, a rarity, because as older folks know, we're always right. Trying to justify how I could be so sure of my convictions, then switch to another side, was difficult until I convinced myself there were extenuating circumstances that brought new information to light. So there! I was right last week and I'm right now.
Fortunately, I had no witnesses to my debate therefore I may continue to fool myself into thinking that I am a wise woman who has a handle on things.
Last week, I was more pensive about rolling into the status of senior citizen. Over the weekend, I've started to notice some benefits.
Forget about discounts and early bird specials, by adapting exaggerated characteristics of a doddering old broad, I had a stranger buy me a cup of coffee and another load my groceries into the trunk of my car without asking.
Do you remember standing in line behind someone who was counting out change for a purchase? Yup, Mr. 'I'm-in-a-hurry' reached over with his crisp ten-dollar bill and treated me at the donut shop.
The zigzag steering of my shopping cart was accidental--really it was. I was admiring the man's shiny, brand new car, distracted I was, when he jumped between the cart and his vehicle. He acted as if he didn't trust me with anything on wheels, and not only did he put the bags in the trunk, he rushed to return the cart to the storage bay. I drove off, feeling somewhat smug that he got to keep the quarter tip from the coin return.
But, of course, I knew exactly what I was doing, and returned home to practice smiling in the mirror. I've been trying to perfect the 'sweet-old-lady' smile for two days. This is a hard one, as my usual look of unmitigated disgust needed to be wiped off my face first. Tough--when it's almost chiselled into my facial expression.
While I was staring in the mirror, I noticed a long hair. Absent-mindedly, I tried to brush it off my shoulder and damn near strangled myself. The thing--just one solitary hair--was growing out of my neck. How did I miss that--all six inches?
I took inventory while in the lavatory, (such a lovely old-fashioned word) and devoted a good ten minutes pulling my skin back to see what I might look like with a face-lift, but dismissing that notion. I made a mental note to ask my dermatologist about Botox--still not out of the question.
In the end, I threw on some lipstick and trundled over to a tea party being held by a neighbour celebrating her fiftieth birthday. Now, honestly, I thought the idea of a tea party was a perpetual joke, something reminiscent of speak-easies in the 1920s, when gin was served in tea cups to give the appearance of compliance to prohibition. Imagine my surprise when her granite kitchen counter was decorated with a dozen bone china cups and saucers. Not only that, the tea pot was 'wearing' a tea-cozy. I swear I came this close to being a smart-ass when I asked if the hostess crocheted these little coats herself. She glowed with pride! So close, but I escaped by using the smile I practiced.
Not a drop of wine in sight. But by the time grace was said, I had it figured out. Not only were all the other women members of the church my neighbour attends, they were Baptists. I have to say, they were an outstanding group of women, and I had no problem finding common ground. What should probably be expected in their shared faith, was a lot of talk about Jesus. Now, as much as I believe in God, and am respectful of all faiths, I found it somewhat disconcerting that each conversation led back to religion. It was a 50th birthday party, for goodness sake. Don't younger women bitch about their husbands and brag about their kids anymore?
While discussing the course of feminism over the fifty years of my neighbour's life, one woman asked me a question. "Don't you believe Jesus was the first feminist?
Sure, time to leave, but all the way down the street, the old joke kept running through my head.
Question: "Do you know why Baptists avoid alcohol and sex?"
Answer: "It leads to dancing."
I had a second party to attend, my grandson's family birthday luncheon. The next day, when I pulled into my son's driveway, I wondered if anyone would notice my new demeanor.
When offered wine, I gave that sixty-something smile of mine, and asked if tea was being served. Hell, nobody even laughed. The kettle was immediately plugged in, and rummaging in the pantry for tea bags commenced.
Now, the advice most often shared with me when I fessed up and wrote an essay last week about turning sixty-five, was to be myself and celebrate doing the things I want. To a degree, that's good counsel, but I have always been a cynic and somewhat sarcastic woman, and while in my pensive mode, I considered a personality make-over, perhaps exposing a sweeter side--if there is one.
I will continue to monitor and take note to see if the old adage about honey attracting flies, or is it bees, holds up, and give serious consideration to the other stand-by: 'If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.'
In the meantime, I have allocated fifteen minutes a day to practice my new facial expression. I can report honestly, I've almost erased the snarl. I bet Botox would help.
Fortunately, I had no witnesses to my debate therefore I may continue to fool myself into thinking that I am a wise woman who has a handle on things.
Last week, I was more pensive about rolling into the status of senior citizen. Over the weekend, I've started to notice some benefits.
Forget about discounts and early bird specials, by adapting exaggerated characteristics of a doddering old broad, I had a stranger buy me a cup of coffee and another load my groceries into the trunk of my car without asking.
Do you remember standing in line behind someone who was counting out change for a purchase? Yup, Mr. 'I'm-in-a-hurry' reached over with his crisp ten-dollar bill and treated me at the donut shop.
The zigzag steering of my shopping cart was accidental--really it was. I was admiring the man's shiny, brand new car, distracted I was, when he jumped between the cart and his vehicle. He acted as if he didn't trust me with anything on wheels, and not only did he put the bags in the trunk, he rushed to return the cart to the storage bay. I drove off, feeling somewhat smug that he got to keep the quarter tip from the coin return.
But, of course, I knew exactly what I was doing, and returned home to practice smiling in the mirror. I've been trying to perfect the 'sweet-old-lady' smile for two days. This is a hard one, as my usual look of unmitigated disgust needed to be wiped off my face first. Tough--when it's almost chiselled into my facial expression.
While I was staring in the mirror, I noticed a long hair. Absent-mindedly, I tried to brush it off my shoulder and damn near strangled myself. The thing--just one solitary hair--was growing out of my neck. How did I miss that--all six inches?
I took inventory while in the lavatory, (such a lovely old-fashioned word) and devoted a good ten minutes pulling my skin back to see what I might look like with a face-lift, but dismissing that notion. I made a mental note to ask my dermatologist about Botox--still not out of the question.
In the end, I threw on some lipstick and trundled over to a tea party being held by a neighbour celebrating her fiftieth birthday. Now, honestly, I thought the idea of a tea party was a perpetual joke, something reminiscent of speak-easies in the 1920s, when gin was served in tea cups to give the appearance of compliance to prohibition. Imagine my surprise when her granite kitchen counter was decorated with a dozen bone china cups and saucers. Not only that, the tea pot was 'wearing' a tea-cozy. I swear I came this close to being a smart-ass when I asked if the hostess crocheted these little coats herself. She glowed with pride! So close, but I escaped by using the smile I practiced.
Not a drop of wine in sight. But by the time grace was said, I had it figured out. Not only were all the other women members of the church my neighbour attends, they were Baptists. I have to say, they were an outstanding group of women, and I had no problem finding common ground. What should probably be expected in their shared faith, was a lot of talk about Jesus. Now, as much as I believe in God, and am respectful of all faiths, I found it somewhat disconcerting that each conversation led back to religion. It was a 50th birthday party, for goodness sake. Don't younger women bitch about their husbands and brag about their kids anymore?
While discussing the course of feminism over the fifty years of my neighbour's life, one woman asked me a question. "Don't you believe Jesus was the first feminist?
Sure, time to leave, but all the way down the street, the old joke kept running through my head.
Question: "Do you know why Baptists avoid alcohol and sex?"
Answer: "It leads to dancing."
I had a second party to attend, my grandson's family birthday luncheon. The next day, when I pulled into my son's driveway, I wondered if anyone would notice my new demeanor.
When offered wine, I gave that sixty-something smile of mine, and asked if tea was being served. Hell, nobody even laughed. The kettle was immediately plugged in, and rummaging in the pantry for tea bags commenced.
Now, the advice most often shared with me when I fessed up and wrote an essay last week about turning sixty-five, was to be myself and celebrate doing the things I want. To a degree, that's good counsel, but I have always been a cynic and somewhat sarcastic woman, and while in my pensive mode, I considered a personality make-over, perhaps exposing a sweeter side--if there is one.
I will continue to monitor and take note to see if the old adage about honey attracting flies, or is it bees, holds up, and give serious consideration to the other stand-by: 'If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.'
In the meantime, I have allocated fifteen minutes a day to practice my new facial expression. I can report honestly, I've almost erased the snarl. I bet Botox would help.
 Recognized |
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. Spiritual Echo All rights reserved.
Spiritual Echo has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
