By Dorothy Denne
Generally I just go along kind of unaware of growing older. The days fly by. I’m active and busy so I don’t have much time to think about it. Actually, I think about it a lot in the mornings when I’m trying to get out of bed, but once I get the body moving, I tend to forget about it.
Last weekend was kind of unusual: didn’t have much to do, felt lazy, not motivated to start any projects. A couple of my girlfriends and I — I guess “girlfriends” is kind of a euphemism since none of us has seen girlhood for a long, long time, but lady friends sounds so stodgy. Anyway, we decided to go to a local fashion show. That was a mistake.
Not one of those models could possibly have been over twenty years old and they were gorgeous. Now, the music was very blaring and boom-boom in nature so, in my opinion, they walked or strode like cows. The last time I went to a fashion show the models glided gracefully up and down the runway to the soft, melodious strains of “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.”
Thin, my Gawd they were thin. A pimple on a tummy would have made the only bump in the clothes. And legs, I’ve never seen legs that long. The girls were not particularly tall but their hip bones would have come up to my shoulder blades. Of course you can’t see my shoulder blades nor my hipbones either for that matter. Theirs were quite pronounced.
The short, short skirts they wore reminded me of my Uncle Earl. Way back when mini-skirts first became popular he commented that they should be called Texas Ranger Skirts. That’s because they don’t cover anything south of the border. These barely covered the border.
My friends and my borders stretch over a broader area. We each recognized the fact. We looked at one another with perfect understanding. Our mouths said not a word but our expressions spoke volumes. My same gender friends and I went for a drink and something to eat.
