pastura

I find something about this upsetting: the fact that old women everywhere are shelling out good money for red hats and clashing purple clothing simply because they clash when these same grey-hairs should be investing in bird feeders, a few extra pairs of bifocals to lose, and, hell, a couple of painted miniature ponies for the grandkids. And it's all because of some old lady writer who dyes her hair and decides to start a cult with a few kitschy books. Suddenly they feel free to act like eighteen year olds (and raunchy eighteen year olds at that!). They're okay with disturbing their neighbors, and they don't mind forgetting their manners. Plus, they're oblivious to the fact that Hallmark is sitting back and laughing while it rakes in all the old-people dough... well... I guess that's actually par for septuagenarians.

The worst part is, you can't go anywhere without running into these ancient sorority broads - I've had to wait on them at the trendiest vegetarian restaurant in a college town, I've had to squeeze by them while on vacation in Maine, and (this is the kicker) I had to watch them bellydance with the dancers at the most out-of-the-way funky Egyptian restaurant in the sketchy arts district of Indianapolis. Lord 'a mercy! The food didn't taste so hot that night.



Anyway, I'm all about old ladies lovin' their bodies. I'm okay if they want to socialize in public. I don't even mind if they wind up being a little more cultured than their hum-bug counterparts, and I'll close my eyes when I get dizzy watching them walk by. But for god's sake... what about the grandchildren?!