*Sophia Petrillo voice* Picture it: Olney, Maryland. The year is 2010. I’m in a hospital bed recovering from a rather nasty encounter with a pulmonary embolism, and I’m listening to my suite mate being discharged. She uses “disposable adult undergarments” and discussed the whether or not she should attempt to go to the bathroom. After a slight bit of hemming and hawing, she’s silent for a moment and says, COMPLETELY nonplussed, “Well look…I just went in this one. What do we do now?”
In that experience, I saw my future. I embarrass very easily. I ultimately recover, it could be months, even YEARS later, and I’ll occasionally get totally red faced about it. I won’t pretend to know what she was thinking, but the way she spoke said, “Look, this is what it is, let’s fix it and move on.”
One day, I’m going to be a really old broad, and I kind of want to be like that. I’ll still be me, but I want to be like “Look, yeah I peed my pants, but I changed my alternator and put two kids through college. Holla at ya girl.” Dammit I MIGHT throw up the Roc when I’m 70.
I’ve also decided that when I outlive my second husband, I won’t marry again. I’ll just have a boyfriend that everyone will call Mr. Charles. That may not even be his name. But he’ll know how to hook up your carburetor, and Charles sounds like the most trustworthy name for that type of thing. We’ll have family picnics and he’ll be all, “Go’on on and let that boy have a beer! Had my first beer at 15 years old!” He’ll say it with a square dangling from his lip and I’ll allow it.
I plan on being a pretty kick ass Gram. But I don’t focus on that TOO much, because I don’t want to be the person who forces my kids to have kids. That’s the type of thing that I would love, but it’s gotta be their choice. My kids are awesome people though, so I’ll look forward to having a bird’s eye view of their parenting.
Toting a pistol will definitely be part of my old broad life. I want a hand cannon. I also want to shoot at least one person, just to show the other reprobates that I mean business. Not the regular mischievous kids. I’m talking about the real incorrigible ones. I don’t plan on killing anyone, but I need to put one on JUST the right side of death so that they know I could if they try to test.
Don’t confuse that with me wanting to be an old douche. I have no plans to hate kids. Actually, I want the hooligans to be my friends. SOMEBODY has to watch my Lincoln Town Car when I go to pick up my post-menopausal medicinal reefer. Part of being older, to me, means sharing with the folks that come behind you. I came up amongst OGs, and they never “schooled” me by beating me over the head with messages. The gave weight to who I was as a young woman, and shared what they’d learned with me. That’s part of the joy of being old, I think. Not to look back and hate that you’re not the young person that you were, but to build and give people the benefit of your experience in all things, including just how to love folks. I really plan on enjoying every part of my journey here.