(only I don’t want to because my body can't take the moisture loss)
I pretty much abandoned this blog when I married Joe. My whole shtick had been to make fun of the hard times that come with getting old; my complaints about being a“spinster” in practice if not anatomy. Then suddenly, I had no complaints. Joe rode up in his BMW convertible and whisked me off to Paris for a month, and it seemed self congratulatory to regale my many ( 27) fans with how freaking great my life was.
Today, my life is still freaking great. Although Joe sold his Beamer and bought a car we can actually get in and out of, he’s still my knight, and I’m very lucky. But life being this good makes the time seem that much more precious. We’ve joked that we are so old we won’t have enough time to get tired of each other.
Today is my birthday. Sixty seven. I find myself measuring the years between my current age and the age at which my mother died. As of today, it’s eighteen years.
Eighteen years. The blink of an eye. I’ve had a driver’s license for fifty years. I would do the math if I could figure out the equation.
We just read that some car rental companies either won’t rent a car to someone over 75, or that geezers are charged more, perhaps in order to pay for the carnage that will most assuredly ensue when they meander over the George Washington Bridge at 15 miles per hour in their Mitsubishi Mirage with their left blinker on.
Well shit. There goes our trip to New York.
I think I’ll try the blog again.* I still have stuff I want to say, and Joe doesn't seem to get some of my funniest lines. In addition, typing is good for my motor skills, I can see the print if I put the font on 14, and, if I wait long enough, the word I’m searching for in that foggy bottom I call my brain will eventually resurface and dust itself off.
Plus, I've still got plenty to complain about, like resembling a Shar-Pei when naked.
My apologies to any Shar-Peis out there.
*Of course, it might just be a birthday thing. If so, I'll see you next year. If I'm lucky.