As a kid I didn’t have many friends, but that was okay because I had the library. Every Saturday I’d walk gingerly through the stacks so my tennis shoes wouldn’t squeak and catch the attention of the librarian, who terrified me. She was about 900 years old and wore a jet-black Eva Gabor wig. When she raised a disapproving brow, her forehead wrinkled up under the hair. It was Creepy.
I let my friend Andrea drag me to a singles mixer. Bad idea.
The Marriott ballroom, decorated in early bordello, was filled with men in dark suits who sported enough ear hair to knit sweaters for the entire US Olympic ski team. It looked like a convention of retired undertakers. I whispered to Andrea, “When I said I wanted to start dating again, I didn’t mean carbon dating.”
Though I’ve been told I have a big head, lately it’s not big enough to hold all the information I’m collecting. My head is stuffed full. Too many entries are crowded willy-nilly in my mental data bank, making retrieval difficult, sometimes impossible. If only my brain had a delete button so I could dump some old memories to make room for new ones. Of course, a few embarrassing moments should be retained to keep me humble, and a few sad ones–not too many–to keep me grounded. I wouldn’t have to delete much, I just need a little more room. I want a pill that relieves over-crowding and creates extra space, like Beano for the brain. Continue reading “My Head Ate Too Much”
Bingo wings are not the latest spicy appetizers; they’re the flabby upper arms so many of us boomers are fighting. This genetic condition also goes by many lovely names such as bat wings, Jello jigglers, flabby dabbys, shakers and movers, Miss Wigglys, and Parma hams. And like a ham, they’re big and hard to hide, especially with today’s sleeveless fashions.
When I was a child, my mother lost part of her vision. Too cash-strapped to pay for eye tests, my parents never discovered the reason. Back then it was a choice between glasses or groceries. But Mom made the best of it. She found if she held a book farther away, she could read it. Sometimes she’d say, “This is mice type. My arms are too short to read it,” and I’d hold the book for her. Anything too close, or too far away, she saw in soft focus. She said it was like watching an aging movie star filmed through gauze, a technique that makes everyone look younger and prettier.
Forget digital, I prefer my paper address book. Flipping through its pages I’m reminded of the extras I’ve added—birthdays, favorite colors, names of pets and tidbits like Wendy’s crazy about hedgehogs and P.J. has a thing for leopard prints.
Since I turned 60, for every gift-giving occasion my friends give me the same thing—moisturizers. I don’t get it. They didn’t do this when I was 59. Did I suddenly stumble into some bad lighting that makes my face resemble a topographical map of Death Valley?
In Trader Joe’s parking lot, I’d just gotten out of my car and was headed for my trunk to get my shopping bags when I noticed a truck pulling out opposite me. To be courteous, I stood beside my car and waited for the truck to back up. And waited. And waited. When the vehicle finally maneuvered out of the parking place, the driver rolled down her window and yelled, “Don’t give me that look. I know how to drive!” Continue reading “She’s Got the Look”
I’ve developed a condition that, unfortunately, comes with age. I call it . . . Missing Word Syndrome—or MWS. It causes me to forget the correct names of things and substitute placeholder words. Just like a synonym is another word for the one you can’t spell, a placeholder is another word for the one you can’t remember. And lately, forgetting words is my… what do you call it…specialty. My recall deficit disorder first presented itself when my husband sent me on a parts run to Home Depot.