Ricochet is the best place on the internet to discuss the issues of the day, either through commenting on posts or writing your own for our active and dynamic community in a fully moderated environment. In addition, the Ricochet Audio Network offers over 50 original podcasts with new episodes released every day.
Today’s topic is “Getting Older.” Not that I am or anything. Age cannot wither me, nor custom stale my infinite variety. I have many ways of staying engaged.
For instance, recently I went to a department store to treat myself to some shopping. This usually puts me in a good mood. But that day, I made the mistake of stopping at a cosmetics counter manned by a young woman wearing way too much eye makeup. I swear that girl was wearing every product they make, all at the same time. Her eyes looked like two tarantulas.
I didn’t stare, however, being the lady that I am. Instead I was perusing the items in the glass case, minding my own business, when Tarantula Eyes asked me if I would like to have “a makeover.” I just looked at her. I? A makeover? She thinks I need a makeover? Excuse me? I took her by the shoulders and shook her while shouting “Are you serious right now? I will have you know that when I was your age, I looked better than you will ever look in your wildest dreams, you little snot!”
No, ha ha, I didn’t really do that. But I wanted to. Aside from the fact that it was insulting to imply that I was in need of a makeover, did she actually believe I’d allow anyone with her obvious lack of taste to come anywhere near my face?
I mean, look at yourself! False eyelashes before 5 pm, chartreuse eye shadow with sparkles in it, black eyeliner in that “cat’s eye” fashion which makes the person look like a fugitive from a 1963 Dean Martin movie, and two round blots of bright pink blusher. She looked like a puppet. Anyway, I politely said “No, thank you” and continued on my way to the shoe department. I love shoes. Shoes never betray you. They always fit no matter how fat the rest of you gets.
Just when I was starting to recover from the ignominy of that incident, I was sitting here on the sofa watching a movie with my dog, minding my own business, when the phone rang. It was a local number, nothing to alert me that it might be a telemarketer, but it was.
It was a recording of a man’s voice saying in a real cheery tone, “Hello, Senior!” Even though I knew it was a recording, I shouted into the phone, “Don’t call me a Senior! And never call me again! What is wrong with you?!”
I was so mad I decided I needed to go outside and get some air, so I walked out and got the mail. Big mistake. It was all junk mail, and two of them were designed to remind me that I have one foot in the grave. One was an offer for a free hearing test, and the other was selling cemetery plots. I am not even kidding. By the end of the day, I wanted to hit someone with my cane, and I don’t even have one.
“You don’t stop laughing when you grow old, you grow old when you stop laughing.” ― George Bernard Shaw
“Twenty-three is old. It’s almost 25, which is like almost mid-20s.” ― Jessica SimpsonPublished in