Ten months ago I joined “The Widows Club.” Now this is truly one of the shittier sororities to belong to. For months I walked around feeling as if I had a huge black “W” tattooed on my forehead. Being the extra person at dinners and movies at the insistence of your friends is both a wonderful and an awful thing – wonderful that you have friends willing to drag your ass out of the house and awful being an intruder in a couple’s world. I never imagined myself in this role, let alone at 54. Take it from me – it sucks.
But, the time eventually came when I felt that I just might want to go out on a date. Ha! My grown daughter informed me that the dating world had changed a LOT since the 60’s. She sat ME down to have “the” talk. Online dating. Sport-sex. Condoms. Bikini Waxes. I had a lot to learn. Good grief, was I really willing to subject myself to all this crap? I hadn’t used a condom in 30 years! And then it was only to prevent babies. She then pointed out that my underwear had to go. Old lady undies wouldn’t make it if you wanted to get laid. So, a trip to Vicki’s secret and $300 later, I was laced and thonged and ready for anything. Now, all you tiny tushies out there may look good in a thong, but alas, this behind is NOT what I would want to see, or God forbid, show off. Fifty-year-old mothers don’t wear thongs. We have cellulite, droopy buns, spider veins, and extra tonnage. However, my daughter assured me that by the time any man sees you in a thong – he doesn’t care how you look from behind because he’s too busy ripping it off with his teeth!! (This visual appealed to me as it had been too many months!!!)
Well, my thongs and I wound up in Aspen for a month of skiing. March spring skiing can get pretty warm and on this particular day the mountain temperature was well into the 40’s and I had skied hard. When I arrived home at my condo, I stripped off my clothes and sauntered into the living room to open a few windows. The place was stifling. I was adorned in – you guessed it – my thong and a t-shirt. I was admiring my mountain view when the front door opened and in walked a Latino male housekeeper. What? They don’t know how to knock in Colorado? I was like a deer frozen in a car’s headlights. Nowhere to hide and he stood between any possible escape and me. But, did this guy do a u-turn and bolt out the door? Did he act embarrassed? Hell NO. He just parked himself in my living room and attempted to converse in bumbling English. There I stood with my thonged ass to the windows – no way could I turn around – desperately trying to find the words for “Get the fuck out of here” in Spanish and this guy was asking me what supplies I needed for the kitchen. Six years of Spanish in school and do you think I could come up with the vocabulary for garbage bags or dishwashing detergent? Ha – fat chance. I guess this type of thing must happen a lot because he didn’t even bat an eyelash as we bungled through our conversation. Well, after what seemed an eternity, I had communicated my kitchen needs and he left. Knowing that he’d soon return, I WAS smart enough to put on some sweat pants. 15 minutes later there was a KNOCK on my door… and there he was with my garbage bags and Cascade. Mission accomplished.
And then 45 minutes after that there was another knock. This time I opened the door to find a GORGEOUS young stud standing there with MORE Cascade and garbage bags. Shazaam - Hot Mama in 1522! Obviously, my reputation had spread. (Good thing I never let the first guy see my thong from behind.) I really should have dragged the hottie in by the hair and hopped his bones.
I think I’ll go brush up on my Spanish.