Geriatric Ramblings

On Saturday, we spent the entire day (with the exception of the time it took to hit Starbucks for the game-starting caffeine) helping some good friends of ours move across town.

And maybe that’s not all true, because I guess the girls took a recess for a bit, which the guys were not informed of. When the five guys headed across town in two trucks that were laden with sofas and beds and a full-color, framed John Elway print, we headed to the bathroom, where we fully intended to pack up Amy’s linen closet, but where we actually fell victim to the world’s fanciest flat iron. My dear friend, Amy, was sucked into making a purchase on QVC last month, where she willingly shelled out the cost of a year’s college tuition for a flat iron that would make Jennifer Aniston weep with joy. Naturally, Amy had to show us the bells and whistles on this flat iron, and she and Regan and I ended up doing one another’s hair. And when PH (Amy’s husband) called from the road, she assured him that we were boxing up bathroom items, because hello! Why wouldn’t we be boxing up bathroom items, like we said we’d do? What could possibly distract us from our packing mission? PH was none the wiser, and not one of the guys commented on the fact that we were all sporting manes worthy of a red carpet evening when they returned with two very empty trucks.

But I digress.

By the end of the day, Hubs and I were attempting to outdo one another with moans and groans, as our geriatric muscles screamed in agony. Our evening conversations went along these lines:

“Where is the Tylenol PM?”

“How many Advil can I take before a coma is induced? Seriously. I want to take the dose that’s right before the dose where complete brain wave inactivity sets in.”

I can remember a time when we’d move off to college in the fall, and we’d pack bed frames and mattresses and hangers bearing Guess overalls and Esprit sweatshirts up endless flights of stairs, and then someone would shout out, “Let’s ride bikes over to the park, which is only eighty-six miles away, and play Frisbee,” and we’d be all over it. And if a rousing game of volleyball got started in the park, then that was participated in as well.

Those were the days.

As I was trying to get my crippled self into bed last night, my friend, Theresa, called. Theresa lived with me in college. She knows about the energy that we used to have, and which we seem to be lacking in our late thirties.

Good grief.

Did I just type the phrase “late thirties”???

To this day, Theresa and I can have conversations that go on for days. Yes, days. We are never at a loss for conversation topics. Long ago, though, our conversations used to center around boys and whether a leather jacket like what Jon Bon Jovi wore was a good purchase for a seventeen-year-old to make.

Of course it was.

Now, though, our conversations tend to be more adult-oriented, which has caught us off guard. We talk about aches and pains, and nursing homes, all of which were topics covered in last night’s conversation.

I even confessed to Theresa that I have started to grow a mustache.

No, that’s not a typo.

I actually typed the word mustache in reference to myself.

About six months ago, three very small, very dark hairs decided to make an appearance at the far corner of my upper lip. I recoiled in horror when I saw them in the bathroom mirror for the first time and immediately walked into the salon, where I told my hair stylist, “Slap some wax on me. I’m starting a mustache. And I don’t want to talk about it!”

So the three hairs were coated in hot wax and ripped off of my face with a sting that rivals the pain felt when a Roman warrior throws a fiery spear through vital, internal organs.

And now, those three hairs have grown back, and they each brought a friend.

As I ended my conversation with Theresa last night and hung up the phone, I told Hubs, “When I’m in a nursing home, will you please make sure that someone always remembers to wax my upper lip, when I can no longer remember to do it myself?”

Hubs replied, “Honey, when we’re in a nursing home together, my eyesight will be so bad, I won’t even be able to tell when you start to look like Burt Reynolds, but I promise to have a nice nurse look after you.”

I knew I married t his man for a reason.

Of course, his current eyesight prevented him from noticing that Amy had used the golden flat iron on my hair, too, which was a good thing, seeing as how we were supposed to be, you know, packing boxes.

One thought on “Geriatric Ramblings

  1. Those of us with shocking stray straight hair have no need for fancy flatiron gadgets. However, Amy's hair is gorgeous each time I see her and with such equipment at her fingertips I can understand why!

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