Thursday, July 17, 2008
Don't Break Your Hip Granny
My first reaction upon seeing the "hip granny" on the subway, with the spiky gray hair and the trendy jogging outfit was, "When I get older, I want to be just like hip granny there. Still active and healthy. And, you know, hip."
But then I remembered that I'm me. And the likelihood of suddenly becoming hip and/or taking up jogging are about as likely as me becoming a vegetarian. Because, while it's a good idea in theory, I'll always really want that cheeseburger. But I'll never really want to go jogging.
I realized then that while we can't control the fact that we age, we can control how we go about it.
Therefore, I want to be a classic blue-haired granny. Who drives an antique powder blue Cadillac. And lets her cat eat at a high chair pushed up to the table. And drives way faster than she should. And yells at the damn kids next door for looking at her lawn ornaments funny. Because there will be lawn ornaments. Thousands of them. Enough garden gnomes to repopulate the Mines of Moria. Holding their tiny ornamental pickaxes and looking wistfully up at the rosebushes I'll pay somebody else to care for.
I'll have an entire pitcher of vodka lemonade at 10 AM if I feel like it. And wear rhinestone studded cat's eye glasses. Then, I'll take them off when people come over and pretend I don't know who they are. I'll rig booby traps for the Jehovah's Witnesses who step on my porch. Then, I'll offer to let them run through my lawn sprinklers in order to wash off the corn syrup and chicken feathers. As a final gesture, I'll give them a brownie for amusing me so.
When there's some kind of a pot luck dinner I don't want to attend, I'll make one of those inedible Jell-o salads with mandarin oranges, marshmallows, and bits of chicken liver. Or a casserole with cream of mushroom soup and peas topped with candied cherries I picked from a leftover fruitcake. Then, I'll snicker to myself when people tell me how good it is.
My back yard will have a big, round pool. And during the summer, I'll float around on it all day long, reading a book and getting a suntan on my saggy, unfettered old boobs. During the winter, I'll just keep the pool hotter and wear mittens.
But don't think for a second I'll be lonely. There will be gentleman callers and friends coming over for a nice 4 PM supper every once in a while. Not too often though because I can't be in the kitchen all day long. I'll be old, you know? And I'll have store windows to drive into, when I can no longer distinguish the brake from the gas pedal, and bran muffins to butter.
When my knees finally go and I can't get around on my own anymore, I'll eat the slightly bloated can of tuna in the very back of my pantry and let the ptomaine poisoning kill me. The pizza delivery boy will find me out on my faithful old pool float, the scent of rancid tuna still hanging in the air, very sunburned and quite lifeless.
I'll be cremated and stored forevermore in a cookie jar on the kitchen counter of some great-nephew or grandchild. Guests will think they're sneaking a cookie, and there I'll be. Still very unhip, but always with a few surprises left in her.