Forever Young

So Jack had a thrown back, and then my always healthy son pulled a neck muscle so badly that he missed a week of work and had to see a specialist. Just as they are both recovering, I wake up in agony. I can’t move my head to the left, a reminder of an old motorcycle injury when I was a wild seventeen. “If you were going to voodoo your problems away, why me?” I ask my now-cured son. “Sorry Mom, I already had a doll in your image. It was convenient,” he replies. No respect.

In one of those rare occasions, we go out on a Friday night with great friends Jill and Ray to a new place. The restaurant served, as one comedian says, “just enough food to piss you off” at an elevated price. Jack, the teetotaler, is always our designated driver but when I decide to order a mixed drink, which I seldom do (I’m a wino), he too orders a scotch. When the waitress comes back for a second round he says, “I’m the designated driver. What do you have to offer?” She lists the usual non-alcoholic fare and he says, “Okay, I think I’ll have a rusty nail.” (That’s a double-whammy liqueur and scotch, by the way.) We laugh tremendously because we will never understand his reasoning. Don’t worry. We all went upstairs to listen to the band and watch young singles pick each other up, where we continued to imbibe but he consumed coffee. Ironically, the band played their rendition of “our” music—the Beatles, Pink Floyd, Allman Brothers, and the Rolling Stones, et cetera.

“I feel old,” said friend Jill.

“Hell, they should all be asking for our autographs,” I replied, knowing that by now I probably look like Keith Richard’s sister.

One trip to the restroom and having a guy yell, “My girlfriend really has to pee!” outside the door brought back some good old memories. Wow, it’s sad that our wiser, but still fun spirits remain in our aging bodies isn’t it? Otherwise, we’d all be hell on wheels and the youngsters wouldn’t have a chance.

I guess that’s the reasoning behind it all.