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A Shared Story: Senior Days and Mexican Nights

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After I finished weeding in the only yard on the street overrun with poison ivy, I drove to the Exercise Center ten miles away for my first day of an exercise program. It is safe to say that I like working out even less than weeding or showing up for a mammogram.

At the Center, I was shown how to do everything from leg stretches to upper body strengthening. The instructor was gentle to the point of patronizing and who could blame her? All it took was one look at my train-wrecked body for her to read washout written all over it. After what seemed like the longest forty-five minutes of instructions in my life, I limped away wearing a ragged look capable of scaring a pit bull into the middle of next week.

I was also starving, so I hightailed it to the first fast foodarama I could find, where I inhaled the biggest cheeseburger on the menu and a super-sized side of fries.

Wiping leftover crumbs from my face and brushing dropped onions and fries off my lap, I thought my worn out old body deserved yet another reward. A quick glance at my fingers and toes loudly shouted mani-pedi at the Asian Nail Spa. In retrospect, that might not have been the best decision I could have.

The nail spas I most often frequent offer manicures and fill-ins, pedicures, waxing and occasionally a tanning bed. For me, it’s just a mani-pedi. I sign in, pick out my polish color and prepare to wait until it is time for someone to mosey over and pamper me for an hour or so.

Now, the following account of that particular day might sound like a scenario I made up so I could write a humorous column in hopes of making you laugh, but that was not the case. You do not need to write and ask me if it really happened because I’m telling you, it did.

Becky, the Vietnamese pedicurist politely instructed me to sit down at the edge of the massage chair, the one that looks like a motorized Lazy Boy Recliner. She pulled out the footrest at the bottom and said, Easier you untie shoes from here, indicating the lace up Reeboks I had recently worked out in.

I am nothing if not a follower, so I did as she said and that is when my world turned upside down. Literally. If I live to be 175-years old, I will never understand why I chose to lean back. But I did and that’s when my tush slipped like a banana peel, smack into the pedicure water!

Before I could even blink, my patootie was bobbing up and down like a duck, and my legs were sticking up in the air in a most unladylike position and a battalion of Vietnamese ran around yelling stuff. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t catch my breath while the Cong tried to decide whether to call 911 for the crazy lady.

Oh, the embarrassing moments we seniors go through in order to get just a little pampering.

After talking them out of calling the 911, I left the spa for a much-needed haircut I’d been putting off for over three weeks where my day was not about to improve. My regular hairdresser failed to show up for work because she had a hangover that made her deathly afraid that she might actually die. Apparently, first responders are not in the habit of responding to morning afters.

So, wearing a head full of short, wet hair because the substitute hairdresser did not have enough time to blow dry it, I went to the grocery store. It was my intention to buy ingredients I would need to make a tomato pie using the plethora of fresh tomatoes given to me by everyone I know who had sense enough to plant a vegetable garden

Instead, I picked up a bottle of tequila because for three hours all I had been able to think about while wandering around in this devil-sent August heat was how wonderful a frozen margarita would feel as it slipped down my parched throat and into my greedy tummy. Olé! I did the Mexican Hat Dance right in the middle of the liquor aisle.

All I needed to remember was where I had put my blender. Oh wait. Do I even OWN a blender?

Senior moments. Are they special or what?  

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A Shared Story: September 2000