Growing Old

            My son clipped a Polident coupon, and gave it to me, I don’t know why but I saved it. The magazine Arthritis Today, arrived in the mail, I don’t know why, but I read it. My last doctors visit; he would frequently utter the words,”Someone of your age.” He looked like he should be playing little league. I don’t know why, but I wanted to hurt him. Celebrated my birthday, in a restaurant, at the same time a senior citizen convention was held. I felt happy and I knew why.

            Some people accept growing older graciously, and some people fight it tooth-n-nail. However you feel about growing older, we all have to face the facts. The facts are, things change. Things such as, getting out of bed in the morning, has become your physical workout for the day. Dyeing your hair is no longer done to make a fashion statement, rather a necessity. Good support means more than just moral support. Clean pipes has two meanings, and Drano can only be used to unclog one set of pipes. Vicks and BENGAY make a pleasant scent when used together: you don’t know why somebody hasn’t already bottled it. You have a child in elementary school and one in college. You forget about the one in college, as you don’t look old enough to have a kid in college. Suddenly, you watch with interest commercials about Depends undergarments. Dressing “sexy,” now means pulling your hair back so your earlobes show. After dinner mints have been replaced by Extra Strength Tums, nightly. Spare tire - not just found in your car anymore. You take offense to someone playing loud music. Then you take offense to the same person, as they don’t speak loudly enough for you to hear.

            Exercise doesn’t energize you the way it used to. You lie down on the floor to do sit-ups and you fall asleep. I swear, I was asleep no more than a minute before my husband found me. Gazing into your loved ones eyes requires you to put on your glasses. The words what and where make up a large part of your vocabulary. “Hey, kid, what is your name? I know you live here, I’m going to remember it eventually.” Where, now where did I park the car? Beverages such as Metamucil and prune juice have become your drink of choice. You believe every restaurant should have them listed on the menu. You’re accepted the fact that an iron can’t remove all wrinkles. Some wrinkles aren’t just found on your clothes anymore. Realizing you’re talking to yourself isn’t as scary as it used to be. Happily, you carry on the conversation as there is no one for you to get into an argument with. The sad part about growing older is when your husband looks into your eyes and says, ”Let’s go to bed, early, tonight.” What he really means is, let’s go to sleep, early, tonight. The saddest part however, is you know what he means and you’re so happy, you could cry.

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Clothes, No Problem

Seb Lyall, a London restaurateur, is opening a clothing optional, pop-up restaurant in London. Lyall said his dream is “true liberation,” designed with body positivity. Photography is banned. The cutlery will be edible and patrons have access to a changing room with locker before they’re seated. The tables are set up for privacy. You can only see someone’s back or silhouette or their shadows from candles. I guess we can be thankful there’s no dressing room fluorescent lighting.

When eating in the nude one doesn’t have to waste time picking out the perfect outfit. I’m such a slob when I eat that I can’t imagine eating without clothes, a bib, drop cloth or napkin. Although in this restaurant I wouldn’t place my napkin on my lap. If you’re dining with your husband and spill ketchup or mustard on yourself, instead of him offering his napkin, he’ll offer to ‘be your napkin’ and personally wipe you clean, taking his time. Spilling hot chicken soup with matzo balls can be painful and embarrassing for a man. He reaches in his lap to pick up a ball and…Oops, wrong ball.

If this restaurant has a buffet, certain risks are posed to diners. Imagine a buxom woman, hanging low, reaching for the salad dressing. She’ll wind up with dressing on her salad and her bosom.

Even though the restaurant is designed to ensure diners privacy and prevent gawking, I guarantee when one walks to the restroom there will be gawking. And, depending on the shape you’re in, you will either run or strut to the restroom.

I would advise men against taking a woman to this restaurant for a first date. When she sees her date, naked, she may swallow her drink along with her bitter disappointment. The man is puzzled when she declines a second date. On second thought, maybe dining in the nude is a great idea. One sees everything they need in order to make a clear decision.

Taking the Girls for a Drive

There’s a new surgical procedure called Insta Breast that allows women to try out temporary breast implants. The procedure can take as little as twenty minutes and cost $2,500-$3,500. A woman will have twenty-four hours to live with the breast and come to a decision. It’s like test driving a car with you wearing the airbags.

For some women the Insta Breast can be a confidence boost for attending special occasions like a wedding or high school reunion. Although, at your 50^th high school reunion it can disconcerting to watch a fellow classmate hunched over, like Quasimodo, because the breasts she’s test driving are so big and heavy they’re weighing her down. Because she’s bent in half all conversation is conducted face to navel. Luckily, she’s pinned her name tag to the back of her sweater for all to read. You read the name. Willie? No, wait, that can’t be, you read it again. Oh, it’s Millie. It’s hard reading upside down.

For some women Insta Breast can be a confidence boost, but for me it’s a dye job. I have what I call my ‘dentist dyed hair.’ Before a dental appointment I get my hair dyed. Why? The dentist and hygienist always stand over me and have a clear view of my head. I don’t want them to see that my hair is the same color as my teeth. I don’t care if they see plaque buildup, but they should not and will not see my gray hair. My vanity speaks from the dental chair.

Why, if I knew when I was going to kick the bucket I’d make an appointment with my stylist the day before to get my ‘death dyed hair.’ I don’t want to be viewed and have people whisper, “It’s a shame she let herself go; didn’t even bother to touch up her roots.” The mortification! If I wasn’t already dead, I’d die from the embarrassment. Mourners should not and will not see my gray hair. My vanity speaks –even from the grave.

Table For One

Table for One

Going to the movies alone isn’t so bad. You sit in the back and no one sees you in the dark, scarfing down popcorn.

Going out to eat alone is different. In a bright, crowded restaurant everyone sees you sitting alone at a table for two. The hostess emphasis you’re alone and will be alone the entire meal when she whisks away the other place setting.

Before cell phones one would arm themselves with dining out alone armor: books, magazines and newspapers, anything to avoid stares of pity from fellow diners. Today, with cell phones, we no longer play the charade. As long as we have our phone – I ask – are we ever really alone?

You’re one at a table for two, but thanks to your phone you can be eating (virtually) with 22 friends, family and followers. These people salivate over the chocolate cake photo you posted on Instagram. Your followers like your extra cheeses pizza and wish they weren’t lactose intolerant. Your mother sends a text, insulted because you ate all the veggies on your plate and you never eat hers. Why not? Your priest (who you didn’t know followed you) pops up and makes you feel guilty for being in a restaurant Sunday morning rather than church. He’ll pray for your soul. Your cardiologist, who is not playing golf pipes in with, “A double bacon cheeseburger? Really? You’ve got to be kidding me! Put it down and back away! Now! Eat that and you’ll wind up back on my table.” Your sister zeros in on the sweater you’re wearing and demands to know, “Is that the sweater you borrowed and told me you lost? You’re such a liar! Give it back! I never could trust you! And mom likes you best!

You’re never alone when dining (virtually) with the masses of people in your phone.

As for me, the best way to eat alone is to disconnect and read a book; at least the characters won’t badger you.

Public Humiliation

We’ve all had embarrassing moments. My most recent one was forgetting to brush my teeth before I left the house in the morning and then wondering why everybody I spoke to kept backing away. At least this time people didn’t laugh and point the way my classmates in sixth grade did when my skirt got stuck in my underwear. They all pointed and laughed as I walked to my seat. I guess I should be happy it happened before social media where it would be plastered for the world to see. Social media takes embarrassment to a whole new level.

Sometimes we’re embarrassed not for ourselves, but for others – ‘second hand embarrassment.’ You ever get embarrassed for a comedian dying on stage? You feel bad (squirming in your seat) knowing they know they’re bombing. Silence to a comedian is worse than a tomato in the face.

As part of a couple, if your spouse tells a joke and it falls flat, the embarrassment falls also on you – ‘second hand embarrassment;’ embarrassment by relation.

In a house where the bathroom is off the kitchen the stage is set for embarrassment. Tell me the genius who thought the kitchen/ bathroom combo was a good idea. It’s not. You go to a friend’s house for dinner and halfway through the meal someone dashes to the bathroom. As you’re chewing your steak you’re now being serenaded by moans and groans. You wince when you hear grunting and noises heard only from animals in the wild.  You applaud when you hear the flush, but your glee is short lived as there’s a round two. This round comes with cursing and air freshener being dispensed. Finally, the boxer emerges looking weary, but triumphant. Nobody acknowledges what went on in there. You keep eating and gradually realize you smell more than what’s on your plate. The smells wafting out from the bathroom and mingling with your food have created a rancid, overpowering stench of a cloud. People lose their appetite. Nobody wants to eat steak that smells like that. You gag with every bite. Guest offer excuses and make a hasty retreat. You, the hostess watch people run to their car and think – how many friends did this cost me? Some embarrassing moments come at a high price.