Meet our writers

 







Humor March 2018

Puttin' on the Gritz

Life in the Senior Lane

By Cappy Hall Rearick

Before I could even blink, my patootie was bobbing up and down like a duck, my legs were sticking up in the air in a very unladylike position, and a bunch of Vietnamese manicurists were circling me trying to decide whether to call 911 for the crazy lady who was by then laughing her head off.

After I finished weeding the only yard on the street overrun with poison ivy, I drove to the exercise center ten miles away for my first day of an exercise program. I like working out even less than weeding or getting a mammogram.

At the center, I was shown how to do everything from leg stretches to upper body strengthening. The instructor was gentle to the point of patronizing and who could blame her? All it took was one look at my train-wrecked body for her to read washout written all over it. After what seemed like the longest 45 minutes of instructions in my life, I limped away wearing a ragged look capable of scaring a pit bull into the middle of next week.

I was also starving, so I hightailed it to the first fast foodarama I could find, where I inhaled the biggest cheeseburger on the menu and a super-sized side of fries.

Wiping leftover crumbs from my face and brushing dropped onions and fries off my lap, I thought my worn-out old body deserved yet another reward. A quick glance at my fingers and toes loudly shouted mani-pedi at the Asian Nail Spa. In retrospect, that might not have been the best decision I could have made.

The nail spas I frequent offer manicures and fill-ins, pedicures, waxing and tanning beds. For my purposes, it’s just a mani-pedi place. I sign in, pick out my polish color and prepare to wait for someone to mosey on over and pamper me for an hour or so.

Now, you may think the following account of that particular day sounds like something I made up in order to write a humorous column that would make you laugh, but you would be wrong.

Becky, the Vietnamese pedicurist politely instructed me to sit down at the edge of the massage chair, the one that looks like a motorized Lazy Boy Recliner. She pulled out the footrest at the bottom and said, “Easier you untie shoes from here,” indicating the lace-up Reeboks I had recently worked out in.

I am nothing if not a follower, so I did as she instructed and that’s when my world turned upside down. Literally. If I live to be 175 years old, I will never understand why I chose to lean back. But I did and that’s when I slid, like a human banana peel, smack into the pedicure water!

Before I could even blink, my patootie was bobbing up and down like a duck, my legs were sticking up in the air in a very unladylike position, and a bunch of Vietnamese manicurists were circling me trying to decide whether to call 911 for the crazy lady who was by then laughing her head off.

Oh, the embarrassing moments we seniors go through to get a little pampering.

After talking them out of calling 911, I went for a much-needed haircut where my day had no intention of improving. My regular hairdresser failed to show up for work because she had a hangover and was afraid she might actually be dying. Apparently, first responders are not in the habit of responding to morning-afters.

So, wearing a pate of short, wet hair because the substitute hairdresser did not have enough time to blow it dry, I went to the grocery store for ingredients to make a tomato pie. I needed to use up the plethora of fresh tomatoes given me by everyone who had sense enough to plant a vegetable garden back in the spring.

Instead of piecrust, I picked up a bottle of tequila. For three hours of wandering around in the August heat, most of my thoughts had been about how wonderful a frozen margarita would taste as it slipped down my parched throat into my greedy tummy. Olé!

I did a Mexican Hat Dance right in the middle of the liquor aisle. Yes, I did.

The only thing left for me to do when I got back home was remember where I had put the blender. Oh wait. Do I even OWN a blender? I can’t remember. So, do I really care? Nope.

Senior moments. Aren’t they special?

 

Meet Cappy