"I didn’t know I was this geeky until I discovered the online world through my office’s 2400 baud modem back in ’93." The Older Woman
Over drinks in last night, I told my companion ‘Have you noticed, this place is full of… (stage whisper) older women?’ Just like ourselves.
Older women meeting other older women. Money in the pocket. Cup of tea, glass of wine. How are you? I’m fine.
I am fine. Upstanding citizen. Deep down a prude. Not a vice to speak of. Never done an A-class drug.
“You are boring,” the younger friend once said. But he’s dead.
I’m alive. I struggle with the notion of the green eyed monster. It starts kicking and screaming each time that young one rears her pretty little head. Half my age, a million times my fortune. Oh envy. Oh want. Oh achy breaky heart and little sodding death.
But does it matter, really, when he does remember every single thing I tell him true or false? And he does regale me, all stream-of-concious-like, of all his one-step-forwards, two-steps-backs?
Oh man, oh victim of the power dress, oh traitor, oh turn coat, oh heroes always disappoint you in the end. But he hasn’t.
Does it matter when we spin our mad tales for each other, mickey taking, side splitting, for fun, in jest, in awe: “First the Oscars, then he’ll stop the war. He’ll sit them down, make them talk and guarantee world peace. Then he’ll succeed the Dalai Lama.”
We are older people still making like the play ground. Make each other laugh. And love.
Oh manchild to my matriarch. Oh brother, uncle, son.
Does it? Matter?
I think not.
