As we took the ferry to our mini break destination we very quickly realized we represented the wrong end of demographics. We were the only ones with our own teeth and hair. We could walk unaided- even after the Syrah-Viognier.
The whiff of Eau d'Oldie was more pungent than the breath of the Russian ice hockey-fans getting ready for the final later that night. Everywhere you looked there were hunch-backed old people fussing over bingo, the price of a cup of coffee and the extent of their dental work. As I looked at the sea of ill-fitting trousers with elasticated waistbands my head was buzzing with the mysteries of the golden years.
Why do they all smell so bad? What makes their teeth fall out? How old do you have to be before you genuinely start thinking that purple hair really is the way to go? Do they all have their curls pressed and ironed on by the same hair-dresser? Do orthopedic sandals become mandatory at some point?
And I knew exactly what The Man would have said at that point. It was exactly what I too was thinking. I don't want to get old.
And the things is, there seems to be very little we can do about it. Sure we can shoot heroine into our eye balls and live that sex and drugs-fuelled life of a rock star and die at 27. And then there's Joan Rivers.
But apart from those fine examples, getting older is an unpleasantly inevitable fact of life.
But apart from those fine examples, getting older is an unpleasantly inevitable fact of life.
I don't feel 33. I know The Man didn't feel 52. As I looked at one of the carbon copy grannies in tight white perm nagging to one of the plaid-clad grandpas in those elasticated trousers I got thinking: is that how they feel too? Do they still feel young inside, in spite of their incontinence- and impotence-filled geriatric reality?
But at least they still had each other.
I don't want to end up alone. I want to have someone whose hand to hold; someone whose bowel movements to monitor; someone who'll sneak off for a beer the moment I go attend the afternoon bingo.
A couple of years ago, in the middle of a July heat wave one of my neighbours died. He lived alone and clearly didn't have much social life either. He just lay there, dead, without anybody missing him. Nobody even noticed until he'd been lying there for weeks and the stench of his rotting corpse in the building got so bad we had to sleep with the windows open.
Who's to say I won't end like him? Without the blue overalls and that perv gaze, obviously, but alone? The terms of my lease forbid me from having pets (ok, they also forbid smoking inside, disturbing neighbours with 4am after parties and installing a washing machine without a trained professional) so my neighbours are not even going to be alerted by the screeching of my cat after she's halfway through eating my dead face. It's just going to be me. All. By. Myself.
A couple of years ago, in the middle of a July heat wave one of my neighbours died. He lived alone and clearly didn't have much social life either. He just lay there, dead, without anybody missing him. Nobody even noticed until he'd been lying there for weeks and the stench of his rotting corpse in the building got so bad we had to sleep with the windows open.
Who's to say I won't end like him? Without the blue overalls and that perv gaze, obviously, but alone? The terms of my lease forbid me from having pets (ok, they also forbid smoking inside, disturbing neighbours with 4am after parties and installing a washing machine without a trained professional) so my neighbours are not even going to be alerted by the screeching of my cat after she's halfway through eating my dead face. It's just going to be me. All. By. Myself.
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