Sunday, September 10, 2006
Turn the Radio On
I forget. That I’m an old soul. That my bikini days and summer blonde magic are memories. Thank God. So in my naiveness, my “I can’t see to look in the mirror, anyway” blindness, I haven’t noticed that I’m not 18 or 29 or 32 anymore. I don’t mind blowing out a zillion birthday candles, as long as they don’t light my hair on fire. I have never suffered through a birthday. I don’t even understand that. I’ve had good days and bad days, good years and bad years, but birthdays? They don’t mean anything, except by the grace of God, you just had another one. And you might need to renew your auto registration.
And so it goes, that today, my body is crumpled. Not from osteo, backaches, heartaches, palpitations or anxiety. From forgetting that I’m getting old. Or older, to say the least. So last night, with three beers in my belly, 20 dollars in my pocket, contacts in these rheumy brown eyes with blue rings, we went out dancing…. My neighbors and I….
And we rocked and we rolled and we dipped and we shimmied and we shook and we twisted and we bumped and we grinded (I think everyone else was line dancing, I can’t really remember) and we closed the bar down (I’m sure they were glad to see us go! This motley crew flicking our bics on the darkened dance floor) and we moved the party here, dancing on the leopard skin rug in the couchless living room ….until it was so late that if you were 18, you would have made mistakes…..
Pardon me, while I have a relapse.