Strange to be 70
How terribly strange to be seventy. For me, the bookend always would have been my brother us two holed up somewhere in the high desert southwest dried like old shoe leather from the sun picking guitars on the porch at sundown. One of us got to seventy anyway. Terribly strange.
My mother always had a little streak of vanity about looking younger than her age. Well past ninety she came home from an ambulance ride to ER dazzled by the cute young doc who looked in on her case. Couldn't get over him saying she didn't look a day over eighty-seven.
At that stage, it may have been a stretch, but for most of her adult life, folks would have been surprised if they knew her age. Married to a cute young preacher, several years her junior lent an air of youth as well. If subconsciously people thought Harvey could have any woman he wants, surely he wouldn't be stuck with an older wife.
Better retirement with the Presbyterians. Mother's reasoning for dad's career move sometime in his thirties, or so we heard after dad was gone and she spoke somewhat openly about their lives together. I'm going suggest another influence, the Presbyterians allow women to wear makeup and mother was pushing forty in a denomination that condemned a little eyeshadow to the realm of worldly sin.
Never forget the first time I saw her put on lipstick. Us kids in the back seat out on the two-lane windows wide open in the afternoon heat, on our way to visit out of town friends. Unfamiliar girly scent from the front caught our attention, mother putting on a little lipstick. Surprised she knew how.
First time I got high and fucked a woman didn't come close to the forbidden fruit feeling of that moment, seeing mother violate one of the cherished rules of the church.
I never begrudged mother a little vanity, especially during her final decade she needed to find whatever pleasures life still had to offer, but I am determined not to let my already overly active ego get into that trip. I'm seventy and got the turkey gobble neck, squinty eyes and the kind of deep creases across the back of my neck that I found utterly disgusting when I was a kid in church and had to look at the back of bald old men's necks. Yuck. And don't even get me started on the ghost of a memory of hair that partially covers the back of my head.
Nevertheless, it isn't that uncommon for me to see honest surprise when I tell my age. Sometimes it's fun, other times not so much.
So then there is this woman I know who is cute as a bug. Single, don't know anything about her history, way too young for me but what does it matter when there is no real chance of hooking up with someone anyway. Every time we saw each other she always had something to say, caught and held my eye with a steady gaze. Woman gives you her dominant eye in a calm, steady gaze without looking away in a few seconds, she likes you.
About this time last year, I came gimping into work with stiff back and bad knee at the same time as my crush. On the way up the hall, I mentioned my age. Usual white lie responses, you don't look that old. Must have been the truth, by now I've almost forgotten the color of her eyes.
My mother always had a little streak of vanity about looking younger than her age. Well past ninety she came home from an ambulance ride to ER dazzled by the cute young doc who looked in on her case. Couldn't get over him saying she didn't look a day over eighty-seven.
At that stage, it may have been a stretch, but for most of her adult life, folks would have been surprised if they knew her age. Married to a cute young preacher, several years her junior lent an air of youth as well. If subconsciously people thought Harvey could have any woman he wants, surely he wouldn't be stuck with an older wife.
Better retirement with the Presbyterians. Mother's reasoning for dad's career move sometime in his thirties, or so we heard after dad was gone and she spoke somewhat openly about their lives together. I'm going suggest another influence, the Presbyterians allow women to wear makeup and mother was pushing forty in a denomination that condemned a little eyeshadow to the realm of worldly sin.
Never forget the first time I saw her put on lipstick. Us kids in the back seat out on the two-lane windows wide open in the afternoon heat, on our way to visit out of town friends. Unfamiliar girly scent from the front caught our attention, mother putting on a little lipstick. Surprised she knew how.
First time I got high and fucked a woman didn't come close to the forbidden fruit feeling of that moment, seeing mother violate one of the cherished rules of the church.
I never begrudged mother a little vanity, especially during her final decade she needed to find whatever pleasures life still had to offer, but I am determined not to let my already overly active ego get into that trip. I'm seventy and got the turkey gobble neck, squinty eyes and the kind of deep creases across the back of my neck that I found utterly disgusting when I was a kid in church and had to look at the back of bald old men's necks. Yuck. And don't even get me started on the ghost of a memory of hair that partially covers the back of my head.
Nevertheless, it isn't that uncommon for me to see honest surprise when I tell my age. Sometimes it's fun, other times not so much.
So then there is this woman I know who is cute as a bug. Single, don't know anything about her history, way too young for me but what does it matter when there is no real chance of hooking up with someone anyway. Every time we saw each other she always had something to say, caught and held my eye with a steady gaze. Woman gives you her dominant eye in a calm, steady gaze without looking away in a few seconds, she likes you.
About this time last year, I came gimping into work with stiff back and bad knee at the same time as my crush. On the way up the hall, I mentioned my age. Usual white lie responses, you don't look that old. Must have been the truth, by now I've almost forgotten the color of her eyes.
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