Friday, May 28, 2004

What the world needs now. . .

After a lengthy sabbatical necessitated by some really scary romantic experiences, I think I'm ready. Problem is, short of taking out a billboard, no way exists to suddenly bring on a bevy of dancing boys from which to choose. And at my age, I'd settle for the limping and slightly used variety.

Where does a girl caught in the 'too old for the bars, too young for shuffleboard' years go to find said studly specimen? I work alone. I drive home alone. I walk on the beach, over the river and through the woods - alone.

Maybe a retirement home might be the best place to find the aging, decrepit man of my dreams? Think about it: he's too out-of-shape to run, too bored not to listen and, chances are he considers a woman of 37 still strumpet material.

How to engage him, though? Posing as a candy striper might work. Could make sex tricky, as fraternizing with the help is probably verboten. Pretending to be a masseuse might be even better. As I rub Ben Gay over his wrinkled, saggy torso I could whisper sweet nothings into his ear (turning the hearing aid up first, natch). At which point, I'll lure him with the promise of pop, cookies and candy with real sugar, just waiting at my house.

Maybe he'll look like Laurence Olivier or Charlie Chaplin: aging, grey, but still vital. Hell, Walter Matthau would be fine, at this point. Yes. I realize they're all dead. Your point?

Oooh. I'm getting so excited. L'amour, l'amour. Toujours l'amour. Wish me luck on Retirement Home Rendezvous 2004.




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