Sometimes I am almost willing to swear that I am telepathically connected to certain people via the US mail. Honest. There are times when I can just think about certain things, and a letter arrives the same day or soon after, and . . . Case in point:
I have been wrestling with this aging thing the last year or three. Okay, lounger! But who's counting? Seriously. My brain feels 28. It cons my body into believing it's at least 28 1/2, and foolish body that it is, tries to behave accordingly. When it fails, I practically fall to pieces. Literally. I'm falling apart--in pieces that feel alien to the rest of me.
I still believe I can dance the way I used to. I still admire good looking men. I still want to drive faster than the law allows. I still think I can throw a party for on, and have a ball on my own. Well, ever since I tore my rotator cuff lifting free weights, I have had a hard time. Not difficult, but H to the -A-R-D. And I will not go gently!
Or so I say. Then I think of my grandmother Annie. She lived to be either 93 or 97. I conveniently forget which number is the real deal. She spent over half her life in a wheelchair. The woman never complained. She wrote to me until she couldn't because she could not see. I learned about two years ago that she was blind. Then I learned it had been deliberately allowed to happen. But that's another story. This one is about mail and ESP.
See the elderly woman on Patty's handmade envelope? I shuddered when I saw it. That woman reminds me of an older Helen Hayes, a feisty-yet-older Bette Davis, me in 30 years. Oh, hell no! No way! I will wear eyeliner, and lipstick, and walk barefoot across hardwood floors someplace other than a nursing home, until after I am over 100. That's for sure. Oh, shucks. Shades of Baby Jane! Maybe not. I will go natural. Naked even. Because I believe that anyone who makes it past 80 is allowed to go naked in a forest for at least 8 hours. Maybe with a caretaker.
Patty sent me a wake-up call with that lovely/scary envelope. It's one of my favorites. So. I might let my hair go gray, and love it. I might wear sunglasses to keep from getting cataracts, but they will be tres chic. I might . . . I might forget your name, but not my own. Or, I might have my name changed, legally, to something clever. No matter. I will still write friendship letters, send you notes, and birthday cards with naked men on front. I will still call you girlfriend, and for sure I will have an updated address book.
Now. I just need a little help from my friends to get past this initial age shock. I felt the same way when I turned 21. I lied about my age; I dated men 5 years younger when I turned 25. I thought I'd have a breakdown at 30. I almost ran away at 39 1/2. I ran . . . In the opposite direction. Every time I stopped to rest, and looked over my shoulder, I saw all the years I thought I'd shed. They showed up on my drivers license!
Wolfey asked me, in a recent letter, what was I waiting for when it came to tripping. She wondered on paper, in an envelope, and under a stamp, why I wasn't half-way to Italy and Egypt by now. Well, Wolfey, I have scratched off any number of dreams from my
Bucket "Girl You Gotta Do List." The dream of sailing to Alaska during the spring thaw is one. It was the mosquitoes that did it for me. I read they were bigger than the ones in Texas.
Now, once, during an almost intolerably wet, mosquito-owning summer, I heard one mosquito say another, "This one looks juicy. Shall we eat her here or take her home to share with the rest of the family?" They were talking about me. So, if they're bigger in Alaska, then I don't need to meet them. I decided I'd do better to keep my sweet ass right here. See? There's a reason for everything. I just haven't found any for Italy and Egypt, yet, so perhaps I might make it after Nephew finds his wings, and launches. I still have my ulu though.
Once in a blue moon my conscience pokes and prods. It wants to know why I sling so much bull. I must give the right answer because what comes in the mail but . . . "Hello, My Name Is" is a sweet reminder that no matter how many
lies yarns I spin, someone will always have my back if I forget who I really am. I might need help remembering some things, but I will never forget a name, since I will always get by if I call 'em as I see 'em. I won't ever forget the word FRIEND.
ESP = Especially Sincere Penpals? Your continued patience is greatly appreciated. The Moanday Mial Bag is loaded and ready. Eleven Limner Letters! Yes!
This Here Limner