Too Old for a Mid-Life Crisis; Too Young for Medicare

Part 1

    My high school reunion is coming up this summer and I've been giving it a lot of thought. I won’t tell you which one; let’s just say it’s been a few presidents since we graduated.

    Mostly, I've been thinking how I could lose 50 pounds, (okay 75 but don’t tell anyone), my gray hair, wrinkles, cellulite and varicose veins. So far all I've lost is a lot of sleep.

    How will my classmates look now? Will they be bald? Fat? Skinny? In other words -- old? And that’s just the women. Can I wear a mask, a al Judy Jetson? Will I recognize them? Will they recognize me? Can I convince them size 18 is the new size six?

    I guess we can all be grateful it's being held in the high school gym and not a swimming pool. Just the thought of trying on a swimsuit makes me sick to my stomach. Swimsuits should be outlawed. I tried one on the other day that promised to "shave inches off your waist and thighs!" It did just that. It shoved the excess to my stomach. When I wore it to the pool, everyone there looked at me like I belong in the Guinness Book of World Records. I figured out what category when a young man offered me his seat and a pickle.

    My best friend Babs was commiserating with me over a hot fudge sundae. She suggested I read her latest self-help book for housewives, If You're Okay, Who Cares? by Baba Louie? According to Mr. Louie, you can lose weight just by meditating twice a day while facing East. All you have to do is find your mantra and you’re set! Babs told me she uses hers every day and now she no longer hollers at the paper boy for throwing her paper in the bushes where the thorns tear at her housecoat. Dogs and kids no longer fear crossing into her yard. Her husband doesn’t worry he’ll be greeted by Attila the Hun when he gets home at the end of the day. It’s the best thing that ever happened to me!” Babs insisted. “It’ll change your life!"

    How do I find my mantra? I wondered, wiping hot fudge off my blouse. How do I

find east? I have a horrible sense of direction. I have the only navigation system to have

a hissy fit and stop talking to me while trying to give me directions to the mall!

Babs gave me the name and address of a guy downtown who can read my ‘aura’ and find just the right mantra for me.

    Getting into my car, I started the engine and waited for Julie to talk to me. That’s my husband Derek’s name for our navigation system. Should I be worried about my husband’s relationship with my car? He does seem to spend an awful lot of time ‘changing her oil.’ Last week I found a strange can of gasoline additive in her trunk. When I confronted him with the evidence, he just shrugged and told me I was imaging things. I don’t know. She seems to take on a sultry voice when she talk to him.

    I hopped into my car and found myself pleading with ‘Julie’ to give me the directions that Babs had written down. I hope no one sees me talking to my car! I’d never to able to show my face to the PTA again!

    After a little more coaxing, Julie finally acquiesced and gave me the route to the guru with the mantras. I missed my turn twice and Julie got surly and let me know about it. She’s never used that tone with Derek.

    Don’t tell her, but when I’m not in the car I refer to her as the ‘nag-igator’. Take that, Julie.

    I lucked out and found a parking space right in front of the shop. That ought to be good karma, right? The door jingled as I entered bringing back memories of days gone by when I’d shop at the five and dime as a child. The air was heavy with incense; at least I hoped it was incense. If Julie thought I was bad before, she’d really be in for a surprise if that’s not what was burning on the counter.

‘Strawberry Fields’ sold incense, beaded jewelry, leather clothes with long fringe, T-shirts with peace signs, wire-rimmed glasses with lenses in several colors and other stuff I wasn’t familiar with. Beatles music as playing in the background. The owner looked and sounded like he was stuck in the ‘60s. He was wearing a Nehru jacket, bell-bottom pants. His hear was shoulder length and he said ‘Hey, man’ and ‘groovy’ a lot. He did resemble John Lennon a little bit.

    Peering over the top of his wire-rimmed, blue lensed glasses, he asked me what he could do for me. He actually called me your chickness! He gave me a lop-sided grin.

    I told him my friend Babs had sent me to find my mantra. I glanced around nervously.

    After reading my ‘aura’ (it looked an awful lot like a leer to me).

    Blowing dust off a piece of paper he retrieved from behind the counter, he handed it to me and told me not to let anyone else see it or it wouldn’t work. Is he kidding?

    I paid for my mantra and didn’t look at the paper until I was safely in my car.

    Hmmmm, I like it.

    Next I headed directly to the exercise equipment superstore. I walked around in a daze staring at all the merchandise stacked from floor to ceiling. I got lost in the hunting section, twice! After about a half-hour, I finally found the fitness section.

    I spotted a young girl who looked like she hadn’t eaten . . . ever! And asked her where I could find exercise equipment that will get me back to the size I was when I graduated high school.

    Trying to keep a straight face, she led me to the section with mats, DVDs and leotards. She picked up one that contained enough fabric to allow a family of four to camp out in. I think she was trying to tell me something.

    One hundred and fifty dollars worth of workout gear later, I headed back home, ready to try out my new mantra. I carefully laid my thirty-five dollar mat (a MUST according to the stick-thin clerk), slipped into my seventy-five dollar leotard (made with the latest man-made elastic material to allow for ‘mature’ curves), placed the ten dollar sweatband on and popped in the thirty dollar DVD for achieving my nirvana in just four short weeks.

    I checked to see if anyone was home. Buffy had her ear glued to the phone, talking to her best friend, Ginger, while surfing the web at the same time. They were comparing the attributes of their boyfriends and the latest movie star crush. I was safe from her for the rest of the afternoon.

    Biff was in the garage with his band, the Flaming Lipchaps, playing music (I use the term loosely) so loud the animals (and a few people) in the neighborhood may never be able to reproduce (which would not necessarily be a bad thing)! Definitely safe.\

    I peeked out the backdoor and saw Derek was busy mowing the lawn. He was down on his hands and knees clipping the border of his flowerbed.

    Hitting play, I watched as kids (how old were these people anyway?) with, I swear, no bones bent this way and that with ease. Trying to emulate the girl in the video, I folded myself into a pretzel. Reaching around to pull my leotard out of my backside, my back locked up, making me look like a Z.

Derek passed through the living room just in time to witness me trying to extricate myself. Laughing hysterically, he attempted to unbend me.

    “Don’t laugh,” I snarled at him. “You’ll be sorry when the teenage boys at the pool mistake me for our daughter, Buffy.” I really resent that snort coming from him. I tried again. This time I folded myself into the proper cross-legged position with success. Minutes later, I was deep in meditation, chanting “bradpittbradpittbradpitt.”

    “If you’re finished worshipping Brad Pitt would you mind getting dinner?” Derek had come in from mowing, wiping the sweat from his brow.

    I had been so intent on getting back in shape for my reunion, and picturing Brad Pitt, all buff, shirtless and glistening with sweat, his strong arms wrapped around my tiny waist; me running my fingers through his gorgeous blond hair, oops sorry. I digress; anyway, I forgot about dinner.

    I bet Angelina Jolie never had to run around with a pork chop under each arm trying to thaw dinner.