I'm getting older and I consider that a very good thing. It beats the alternative.
My body (and mind) have reminded me of my age this week. The Big Race recovery hasn't been as difficult as I expected. It's been almost exactly as I expected. Sore muscles at the start were of epic proportions and they've faded into memory only. The only physical reminders I have are at my right heel (will that ever go away?) and my left second toe. It's still tender. I've been reading up on Morton's Toe. To call myself a genetic freakshow is a bit dramatic and won't bring me any sympathy. It does bring me the knowledge that my toe will get better and maybe I can prevent this pain from happening in the future.
It also makes me feel good to know that the Statue of Liberty and I have something in common - other than a pensive countenance which might be mistaken as guarding rather than welcoming. When I was spending hours online last week I found pics of her feet poking out from under her robes. Who knew?
So, my mind. Last night I went country western dancing with a friend. Let me take that back. I put on boots and jeans. She drove us to a honky tonk. We paid cover to listen to a surprisingly good band. (I say this because surprisingly, my ears didn't bleed.) She danced. I drank two bottles of Michelob Ultra beer and watched the dancing. Prior to going, I'd told her I wouldn't be dancing. I know how to two-step and polka. I can waltz. I don't love it and I didn't feel like it. I was happy to sit along the rail and watch. The crowd was all ages, twenties through sixties and up. Some were outstanding dancers. Some fair. It was fun.
During band breaks the DJ played the kind of music I usually dance to. When I'm on a cruise ship or when I'm out with friends and I've had two vodka martinis. I continued to watch. Honestly, I was happy to have "my foot hurts" as an excuse not to dance.
I also realized I'm invoking an age provision in my head. I'm going to call it the "Grandmother Clause".
If at a certain point in your life you are tempted to exhibit behavior that you are certain would mortify any grandchildren you have or could potentially have due to your chronologic age, don't.
I think it's pretty simple, just based on that one simple word: mortify.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to stop dancing. Just don't be surprised if THIS Brick House never once takes the Jersey Turnpike on the dance floor.
(p.s. I think my Dad would agree with the above. Here's to a fantastic Grandfather who knew how to keep it classy. Missing him as much today as I did three years ago. Broken hearts can mend. Thanks for the love.)
©Michelle Scofield, January 26, 2013 All Rights Reserved
Showing posts with label old fashioned. Show all posts
Showing posts with label old fashioned. Show all posts
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Saturday, September 1, 2012
I Come From Another Place
Dancing last night with J. We used to go about once a month or so but things happen and it's been a long time. Broken feet happen. Babies happen. Bad bands happen. We got out of the groove. Don't get me wrong. J and I never lose our grooves. We're just too damned groovy to lose our groove.
Our old routine went like this: We'd order dinner (lots of chips and salsa) and talk about our families and our jobs. We'd catch up on news about the old gang. We'd share a pitcher of margaritas or have a couple of martinis each. We'd commiserate about the political and social atmosphere of our nation. Then we'd move on to the dancing venue.
Our new routine goes like this. We go to dinner and talk about our families and our jobs. We catch up on any news about the old gang - there's not much anymore. We might have coffee. We rarely have alcohol at dinner. We commiserate about the political and social atmosphere of our nation. If we're both feeling good and we can find anywhere to dance, we move on to that place. If not, we call it a night and go our separate ways. Last night, we felt great and we had a plan.
The lights were low, the wood paneling was dark, and the band was playing when we entered the room. The music ran all the way through rock and blues to salsa and hiphop. Several couples were already on the dance floor and we found a table not too far away. It didn't take long before the first drive by occurred. A man circled our table and didn't stop. We were being checked out. I asked J if she'd seen him. She hadn't. She never does. It's something I like about her. She's there for the music. I've seen her dance alone many more times than with a partner.
We were served way-too-expensive cocktails and soon were dancing with numerous and varied partners. I feel lucky that I was asked to dance by a man who happened to be quite good at East Coast Swing and I'm not sure if he had as much fun if I did, but I had a blast. It's rare to find anyone who knows how to dance that style these days, let alone is a strong but not painful lead. During a mamba, I feared one older gentleman was having some sort of cardiac event, as evidenced by his profuse perspiration and the way he was mopping his brow with cocktail napkins. I asked him if he wanted to sit down but he insisted on dancing on. We danced on.
You'd think all this would be entertainment enough. But wait. There's more. Another girlfriend arrived. I hadn't seen her in months. Now picture this. Three women. One tall drop-dead gorgeous African-American, one Midwestern brunette, and one tall West-coast looking blonde. 3 women out on the town, dancing with any man who asks, buying their own drinks. What happens during the band breaks? Just this.
A man walks over, sits down at our table and says, "So what's the story here?" He went on to tell two of us that he thought we were quite stunning but "not your blonde friend" - gesturing at her with a shoulder shrug. He turned his body away from her, oh-so-slightly excluding her from his conversation. He actually insulted her, not once, but twice right in front of us. I think he saw her talking to someone and immediately decided she was interested in that person so he didn't have a shot with her. I'm not sure, but his approach was, um, interesting. He went on to tell us that the "guys at the bar" had been talking about us and there was money riding on him coming over and finding out our story...where were we from, how did we know each other, etc. He said he might not be very elegant in his questioning because he "came from another place". Ah! That's it. He asked where I came from. I told him, I also came from another place. Kansas in Truthistan.
Now, know this. The entire time I was talking to him, I was smiling. I was charming. I was Charm School charming. I let him tell us his story about the bar bet and then I leaned forward and told him it wasn't very nice, what he said - twice - to my friend. I continued to smile while I said it. He kept smiling and he shook my hand. He stood and he left.
Best part of the evening. As soon as he left, another man slid right into his seat. My girlfriends and I just cracked up. Poor guy. What was this? Was someone giving out numbers for that booth position?
I don't want anyone to get the idea that we're three women who go out on a mission to mess with men. We don't. It's quite the opposite. We all had a great time and I think the people we danced with did, too. We aren't out to hook up. We aren't out to take advantage. We're just out being humans, enjoying the music. Mr. Swing Dancer was kind enough to tell me of some places I didn't know about where I might run into some other dance-lovers my age. I'll check them out. In the meantime, I'll keep planning dinners with my girlfriends and remembering where I come from. Truthistan, the land of smiling honesty.
©Michelle Scofield, September 1, 2012 All Rights Reserved
Our old routine went like this: We'd order dinner (lots of chips and salsa) and talk about our families and our jobs. We'd catch up on news about the old gang. We'd share a pitcher of margaritas or have a couple of martinis each. We'd commiserate about the political and social atmosphere of our nation. Then we'd move on to the dancing venue.
Our new routine goes like this. We go to dinner and talk about our families and our jobs. We catch up on any news about the old gang - there's not much anymore. We might have coffee. We rarely have alcohol at dinner. We commiserate about the political and social atmosphere of our nation. If we're both feeling good and we can find anywhere to dance, we move on to that place. If not, we call it a night and go our separate ways. Last night, we felt great and we had a plan.
The lights were low, the wood paneling was dark, and the band was playing when we entered the room. The music ran all the way through rock and blues to salsa and hiphop. Several couples were already on the dance floor and we found a table not too far away. It didn't take long before the first drive by occurred. A man circled our table and didn't stop. We were being checked out. I asked J if she'd seen him. She hadn't. She never does. It's something I like about her. She's there for the music. I've seen her dance alone many more times than with a partner.
We were served way-too-expensive cocktails and soon were dancing with numerous and varied partners. I feel lucky that I was asked to dance by a man who happened to be quite good at East Coast Swing and I'm not sure if he had as much fun if I did, but I had a blast. It's rare to find anyone who knows how to dance that style these days, let alone is a strong but not painful lead. During a mamba, I feared one older gentleman was having some sort of cardiac event, as evidenced by his profuse perspiration and the way he was mopping his brow with cocktail napkins. I asked him if he wanted to sit down but he insisted on dancing on. We danced on.
You'd think all this would be entertainment enough. But wait. There's more. Another girlfriend arrived. I hadn't seen her in months. Now picture this. Three women. One tall drop-dead gorgeous African-American, one Midwestern brunette, and one tall West-coast looking blonde. 3 women out on the town, dancing with any man who asks, buying their own drinks. What happens during the band breaks? Just this.
A man walks over, sits down at our table and says, "So what's the story here?" He went on to tell two of us that he thought we were quite stunning but "not your blonde friend" - gesturing at her with a shoulder shrug. He turned his body away from her, oh-so-slightly excluding her from his conversation. He actually insulted her, not once, but twice right in front of us. I think he saw her talking to someone and immediately decided she was interested in that person so he didn't have a shot with her. I'm not sure, but his approach was, um, interesting. He went on to tell us that the "guys at the bar" had been talking about us and there was money riding on him coming over and finding out our story...where were we from, how did we know each other, etc. He said he might not be very elegant in his questioning because he "came from another place". Ah! That's it. He asked where I came from. I told him, I also came from another place. Kansas in Truthistan.
Now, know this. The entire time I was talking to him, I was smiling. I was charming. I was Charm School charming. I let him tell us his story about the bar bet and then I leaned forward and told him it wasn't very nice, what he said - twice - to my friend. I continued to smile while I said it. He kept smiling and he shook my hand. He stood and he left.
Best part of the evening. As soon as he left, another man slid right into his seat. My girlfriends and I just cracked up. Poor guy. What was this? Was someone giving out numbers for that booth position?
I don't want anyone to get the idea that we're three women who go out on a mission to mess with men. We don't. It's quite the opposite. We all had a great time and I think the people we danced with did, too. We aren't out to hook up. We aren't out to take advantage. We're just out being humans, enjoying the music. Mr. Swing Dancer was kind enough to tell me of some places I didn't know about where I might run into some other dance-lovers my age. I'll check them out. In the meantime, I'll keep planning dinners with my girlfriends and remembering where I come from. Truthistan, the land of smiling honesty.
©Michelle Scofield, September 1, 2012 All Rights Reserved
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Because I Said I Would
Here you go, Stacey. This is the little piece I told you about. Just a nosh.
Tea Time
Standing on line at the corner shop,
waiting for a cuppa,
and thinking about toffee bars,
I go back to Granny’s house.
Clink, clink.
Sugar squares fall through time
and land on China patterns.
Tea roses.
Moss roses.
Dusty roses.
Wedding roses.
I slip around the grand furniture,
as she naps
-or pretends to nap.
Shhh!
Clack, clack.
She lets me wear her shoes,
and her hat, and her own Granny’s mink stole.
I am a lady.
We eat cookies and call them biscuits.
I keep my white gloves at her house,
in the bottom drawer of the big chest
she calls a bureau.
I keep them with the pin she calls a cameo
and a Sucrets tin with nine pennies,
a nickel,
and a red button.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Perplexipity
When born two decades
too late,
one does what one can
to fit in among
those who refuse to
fit with the norm
as one learned it.
After all,
who needs
white gloves?
aprons?
linen napkins?
Please give me linen napkins.
The world is changing around
old-fashioned girls like me.
Even I don't believe in panty-hose
anymore. Not even in church.
I am struck with perplexipity.
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