THIS IS A RETRO POST FROM MAY 2008. Today’s reposting is in July 2020. It feels like an entire century ago.
OK. Deep Breath. I don’t care about the movie, “Sex in the City”. Not even one little bit.
Would you ask this woman if she’s seen “Sex in the City” with her galpals?
I’m too busy trying to take photographs of myself in my rear view mirror on the way to locate my favorite candy while wearing clip-on sunglasses in the grocery store.
I wear sensible shoes. I have white/gray hair (curly–think Einstein) and wear black slacks 24/7. I’ve shrunk (length wise only) from 5’8” to 5’6″” from osteoporosis but feel sure my curves are closer to the spinal column than anywhere else. I have a ski parka but do not ski. A man asked me this winter if I’d like to go skiing with him and I said “Are you certified in CPR?”
Do I have what I need from the store? Now, that gets my attention. Cheez-Its. Perdue Roaster. Scallions. Eggs. Swiss Cheese. Chicken Wings–because when I make them, the world sings. Thank you, Emeril LaGasse. I started cooking when I was 57 and learned through the cooking shows on TV. Of course, “learned” is a relative term and I have noticed that people usually eat before they come to my house for dinner, but I am good company so they don’t seem to mind.
I am a certified movie nut. But, you couldn’t drag me to see “Sex In the City” with the promise of George Clooney sitting next to me, the only man who makes me remember south of the Mason Dixon line if you know what I mean.
Are you blushing? No, of course not, because most who read this are “Sex in the City” fans and that veiled remark would account for nothing on the Richter scale of suggestiveness.
An old boyfriend contacted me last year and suggested getting together. He said he could bring his bottle of Cialis as if that would make the offer just plumb irresistible. When a man asks someone out AND advertises a vial of hydraulic drugs in his pocket, does that mean he’s glad to see you?
I told him, “I am closer to Assisted Living than a bedroom with you.”
He didn’t call again.
So, there you have it. The Simple Life. The Single Life. Sarcastic and focused on the activities of daily living mentioned above and unless a man propositions me with something other than the promise of an emergency room, broken bones and blue pills, sex is not going to be part of the daily living activities list.
But, consider this: at least I don’t have to worry about calling his doctor in the middle of the night with one of those pesky erections lasting more than four hours, either.
This ’08 political season is the only thing lasting longer than that.
©Pat Coakley 2008
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