A couple of weeks ago, Baton Rouge hosted the "Life After 50" expo. The ads promised a delectable array of products and services aimed at the "50-plus set." The 50-plus set? I turn 50 and I'm in a new set? Harumph.
Needless to say, I did not attend--a decision confirmed by the photo in the local paper the next day, which featured three decidedly geriatric individuals, biting dubiously into Kalamata Tapenade Bruschetta (the Suggested Choice for Healthy After-50 Entertaining). Hmmph. No perky chirpy dietician needs to introduce me to bruschetta or tapenade or kalamata olives, thank you very much.
The next week the same local newspaper featured a big article on the Red Hat Ladies. You know, those old, spunky ladies who dress up in purple and wear gargantuan red hats and go out for lunch and act wild and crazy over spinach salad and iced tea. To my horror, I learned that a woman can be transformed into a Red Hat Lady at the ripe old age of, yes, 50.
50!! I turned the page with a contemptuous sniff. Gimme a break. 50! Hardly the start of old age.
One should never sniff contemptuously. One should never dismiss perky chirpy dieticians. One will pay. Big time.
Today I went to the podiatrist for my ridiculously sore foot. No, it's not gout as Keith predicted. It is, the extremely competent, efficient, articulate doctor who looked all of 16 years old explained, a matter of jammed bones, leading to bone spurs, leading to arthritis. Wahh.
Leading to extremely painful injection into sore toe joint this afternoon. Extreme Wahh.
Leading, most likely to surgery.
Fine. One and a half months short of my 50th birthday, and the road ahead is clear: rapid physical disintegration and decay.
Excuse me. I'm off to search out other members of my 50-plus set. And I have to shop for a really big red hat. And make up a batch of Kalamata Tapenade Bruschetta.
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