I have finally reached the age where my mind thinks I’m 35, my sense of humor suggests I’m 12, but my body keeps asking if we’re still vertical.
My young mind tells me that I’m up for everything – a long breakfast with friends to settle the world’s ills, a leisurely browse through a book store, short, pithy conversations with a new doggy friend, taking on yet another project, chocolate in all its forms and staying up long past the geriatric bedtime.
I must admit that it’s been a long time since I’ve had a long, philosophical breakfast with anyone. Mine usually involved ferns in the corners, fancy egg dishes I can’t/won’t prepare at home and a mimosa or two. Sigh. I used to come away filled with enthusiasm and optimism about another day in this world. The only drawback to this start is that errands afterwards are too pedestrian to endure. The only acceptable alternative is a nice nap in my favorite chair. Guilt usually replaces enthusiasm when I wake up.
I know better than to browse through one of our most excellent bookstores after a Mimosa or two. I rarely leave a bookstore empty-handed, but that extra lubrication often results in an overindulgence of rescuing books from the shelves. Other women hide yet another pair of new shoes, but I have to deal with an ever-growing stack of newly purchased books to read.
I’ve noticed through the years that my sense of humor has changed. I used to feel witty when I caught the innuendoes and obscure quotes by politicians or network commentators. Nowadays, everyone is so mean that I turn off the news and enjoy the splendiferous silence. Rather than current events, my humor now revolves around the (aging) human body and its functions and malfunctions. I intersperse jokes addressing the working of the human body and mind with snippets from social media about cute animals. I’m not particularly well informed about the world around me, but I smile a lot.
Speaking of cute animals, I am repeatedly dismayed at the large number of pet owners who never talk to the creatures who share their lives. I am equally dismayed when those owners look at me like I’ve lost my mind after my short conversation with their animal. I don’t do snakes well and speak only rudimentary bird. But I am fluent in dog and speak enough cat to get by. The trick is to tell the pet owner what I’ve just learned with enough tact and credibility to benefit my new furry friend.
I was introduced to the concept of community service rather late in life and, like all working people, I had to wait until retirement to fully explore this side of my life. Now I am up to my eyebrows in one project after another. All of that is fine, but my 35 year old mind repeatedly over-commits my ageing body and diminishing energy level. Thank heavens I perfected the cat nap decades ago.
And don’t get me started on chocolate. My teen years were spent with a severely limited access to chocolate because of the acne it supposedly caused. Whenever I broke protocol, I would indulge in a Reece Cup – it contained off-limits peanut butter as well as the evil chocolate I craved. I eventually grew out of the acne stage, but never lost my love for chocolate. Peterbrooke Chocolatier is conveniently located next to my favorite grocery store so I can nip in for a quick fix any time I want to. Only iron discipline keeps me from gobbling half of the shelves bare when I finally allow myself a visit. Now each piece of that gooey goodness skips wreaking mayhem on my face and goes on to add inches to my hips. Despite all of its deadly consequences to my body, chocolate will always be my favorite food group.
Common knowledge these days, at least among the ageing set, is that 9 p.m. is the new midnight. Even with one of my famous cat naps during the day, I fall asleep in my chair around 9 p.m., but wake at midnight so I can get ready for bed. Instant panic sets in if the telephone rings between those hours. Since almost everyone I know is asleep by then, somebody’s dead or needs bail.
Unfortunately, fewer and fewer of us need bail because we’re asleep in our chairs after partying too hearty or getting up to no good. That’s fine, but please wake me in time for our ferny brunch.
Cara Curtin is a retired Naval officer whose last duty station was nearby Kings Bay Naval Submarine Base. She and her family chose Fernandina Beach as their forever home, where she continues to pursue her writing career of more than 30 years. She has written for radio, television and a wide variety of print publications. She also gives informal talks and conducts workshops to share her writing tips. Contact her at wordsmythe1776@gmail.com.
