I discarded the idea of wearing yesterday’s clothes, not because the dog seemed too interested in sniffing the garments but rather because when you’re living in the land of elderly bliss---and I’m saying that tongue-in-cheek--- people like to assign words like ‘dementia’ and ‘forgetfulness’ to the simple concept of laziness and trying to cut down on laundry. You can’t get away with anything when you’re my age. For example, a head of gray hair looks silly all dyed up in the Easter egg colors like some of the twenty-somethings do these days and if I were to cover up my head of unruly hair with a brightly colored scarf no one thinks, How beautiful! No, they’d be thinking, Poor dear, she must be getting chemo.
I have crumby thoughts running around in my head today. I just heard that line coming from the TV in the living room. What an apropos way to phrase it---crumby thoughts in my head. But in fairness to other people my age, you don’t have to be old to wake on the wrong side of good-natured and merry. Crap! I just stubbed my toe and the dog is smirking behind his schnauzer beard. Where are your glasses, old woman? his dark eyes are asking.
Growing old is just as hard as growing up because people are always watching, waiting for us to screw up so they can take our car keys away. The biggest difference is when you're young they give the keys back after a period of contrition and begging and you don't have to worry about your family taking your measurements in the middle of the night so they can order your casket.
I have to quit reading over at the widowhood website where I learned yesterday that we old widows have it made in the shade. We can sit around sipping sweet tea and let our memories hug the crap out of us. Apparently because we’ve got so many of them it’s not suppose to hurt as much as only having only a few years worth under the preverbal widow’s belt. To that I could counter that at least young widows have time left on earth to find happiness again. They don’t think they will, but most of them will eventually love again. I know that firsthand from a love I lost with dark and deep grief before my 42 years with Don. All we old widows have to look forward to is some mean person in a nursing home using our liver spots to play connect-a-dot.