The world is crazier than most people know. But I know. I was a clinical social worker for forty years. I am a witness. I retired from social work to write about the sad, the mad, and the savage; with whom I have spent most of my life. I have decided to translate these stories into fiction, because, as a co-worker once said, "You couldn't make this sh*t up. No one would believe you."

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

NEWSNEWSNEWS BOOMER B*TCHES ABOUT GETTING OLD



Time marches on….and on, and on. We baby boomers, the shapers of the sixties, the movers of a nation, are evolving into old farts, just like the parents we swore we would never be like. (Hah!)


I am a sixty four year old woman. What comes to mind? Sags, bags, bulges, wrinkles, gray hair, age spots, varicose veins. So what am I doing with a good figure, dark brown hair, freckles that haven’t blended yet into age spots, and almost no wrinkles? What am I doing with joie de vivre, energy, desire for sex, and a raunchy sense of humor? What am I doing, period?


I still work. I plan to work until I’m seventy, because I have to. I have squat for retirement and zilch for investments so there you are. But I don’t feel so bad. Everyone I know is working to seventy. Even those who retired, are finding theyhave to go back to work. May as well, since we’ll all probably live to be ninety. Not a snowball’s chance in hell Social Security will take us there. I was planning to sell my house to finance my retirement, but…..we all know what happened there.



I still see friends, tell dirty jokes, and look at handsome men. I still squeeze my husband. I still run on my treadmill; I still do the hard type of yoga. I still shoot my 9 millimeter and still hit the target. I still drink Guinness and love pubs. I made one concession: I gave up smoking thirty years ago because it cost too much. I am supposed to be over the hill. (Huh?)


Dig this: I refuse to get old. When it starts to sag, I will get it lifted. (The cost of a facelift won’t make a bit of difference to my measly retirement fund, but theupdo will make all the difference to my well being!) When the freckles become spots, I will acid or laser them off. The hair, already half gray, is nicely dyed. Keep the gray for cars and gun barrels, not for me.


And when I can’t run anymore, and I start to stoop, and I dream about dinner at breakfast, and I start obsessing about bowel movements and joint pain, I will die. I have this planned: I will go to the porch, sit my butt down in a rocking chair, and give up. I will be dead within days. This will make me happy. My children will not have to care for me while I rot away. The insurance companies will get no benefits for keeping my almost-corpse alive. The medical industry won’t get a dime, the bank can keep the house, and if I have any outstanding debt, may the creditors put the bills in their collective rectum and whistle a happy tune.


Fighting words, yes; but I mean every one of them. There is no such thing as “the golden years.” The only gold in your final years goes to the doctors and insurance companies. Why live well for seventy or eighty years, then horribly for another five or ten? Why not just pack it in when it’s over? Why become frail, elderly, and invisible? Where’s the benefit?


Old women are supposed to become frail, elderly, and invisible.


And I refuse to do what I am supposed to.

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