Yesterday Mr. wendydavis drove over to Durango to buy some cute little cannabis clone plants for me at one of the medical marijuana dispensaries. Card holders are permitted by law to grow five, but hoo-doggies, at thirty bucks a pop, three damned well better be enough. One wasn’t even the advertized 7″ tall, it was maybe 3″…short. The price was highway robbery, but hell, it’s great to see that a whole new financial sector is being created by states legalizing either medical or recreational marijuana legalization: Cannabis Capitalists! Yeah, the dude that whipped up the Dixie Elixirs corporation’s products: the cannabinoid salves, cannabis candies (blech), and joint sprays says it out loud: ‘I can’t wait to make millions when I sell this business; this ain’t no adventure in altruism, peeps! I am a patriot, and as we all know, ‘America’s bidness is…bidness.’’
But shoot, that’s not what I wanted to tell ya about. It was the fact that while he was in Dango, as a young hitch-hiker we picked up back in the day called it when we’d asked him where he was headin’. “We call it Dango”, he intoned, just baskin’ in the glow of his supreme coolitude…
Damn; there I am digressin’ again. Besides those adorable little seven-leaved plants, he had a bag of videotapes he’d scored for me at the Humane Society thrift store. See, it’s pledge drive time for all five of our PBS stations again, and there’s seriously nothin’ on the sumbitch teevee, so if I wanna veg out now and again in front of the black box, it’s either tapes or Barney cartoons in the mornin’, or The Fabulous Fifties Music at night. Or of course the guy who’s got the key to Eternal Youth, but hey: he looks like he sleeps in a coffin. You think those Latte Libruls’d catch on that the dude’s a quack, wouldn’t ya?
In the bag with three other tapes was ‘Real Women Have Curves’. Well, now; I just fairly busted a gut laughin’ at that. How timely! The day before, its companion piece, a dead tree catalog had arrived in the mail from (not joshin’ here): The Woman Within. I’d flipped through it, and found all these threads with sizes marked with Xes and W’s. Yeah, baby; now there’s a marketing approach: “Somewhere inside all that mess, there’s a real woman; we’ll help ya find her!” The fuckers.
Now wait a minute, I thought, how the hell did they know I’d been puttin’ on some extra pounds since I’m er…a bit physically challenged now? Huh? And then the penny dropped: it was cuz the FBI and the NSA had been spyin’ on me and my computer habits. See, they weren’t watchin’ me cuz I’m so fuckin’ hard on the President, they were doin’ it to find out how to sell me stuff! And they prolly got from my search habits that I’m a woman of a certain age, and with certain infirmities, let’s call ‘em…and they put two and two together, and came up with: ‘She must be gettin’ fat!’ and had shared it with the Capitalist Consumer Machine that they live to serve.
So I reckon that pretty soon I’ll start getting’ catalogs from Akron Tent and Awning, and I’m hopin’ like hell that they have some cool threads in all cotton in spring colors with those slimming vertical stripes that’ll help me find my Inner Hardbody again.
Yeah, you’re prolly thinkin’ that by now I’m unleashing my Inner Bitch, and I’m considerin’ writin’ an email to DiFi or one of the Senators who are Champions of the Fourth Amendment, right? And that I could devise a rant to make sure that she carries my very own personal objections to all this spyin’ as she carries the Torch of Liberty for all of us…all the way to the bank, right?
Well, you’d be wrong. I decided to take this bullshit as a Teaching Moment instead, and turn the poison into medicine, just like every good hippie should. So…I mentally girded my loins, drew in a cleansing breath…and marched to the only full length mirror in the house…that was blessedly out of sight in our daughter’s old bedroom. By golly, I was gonna take a critical look at myself just to see if they were right, and if they were…to consider any possible remedies (like puttin’ my head in the oven, maybe).
Now, not being a glutton for too much punishment, I didn’t turn the light on; there was enough comin’ through the small window at the head of not-Aurora’s bed already.
Well, crap. Once I got brave enough to open my eyes past a squint, I met my full-length reflection and found that (eeeep): while I hadn’t been lookin’, my Outer Amazon had kinda turned into my Outer Chubby Crone. It was hard not to stare a little bit at the indications that gravity had sure been havin’ its way with me. Jeez, Louise, all those gorgeous muscles had kinda gone…saggish, and my breasts, well…maybe those straight women had been right after all: going braless in the sixties and seventies would end up makin’ ya look like the African women in the National Geographic. How many of them had warned me: ‘Ya better watch out’? Yeah, and okay…there I was, lookin’ more like a Pear than the Peach I used to be. What the hell? No amount of pullin’ in my tummy really made much of a difference. Guess I should have realized that things were goin’ downhill for my body once I kinda slid into joinin’ the elastic waist brigade, eh? Shouldn’t have been rationalizin’ that elastic just made it easier to dress and undress on days I was especially gimpy, right? Dreading it, I turned sideways and cranked my head a bit, and found: uh-oh. Those mountain-hiking glutes had kinda given up the ghost as well, and my bum looked like it had taken on the shape of the chair I use at my laptop. Crappydiddle and phooey fuck.
Shoot, who’d I been tryin’ to kid? There’d been plenty of aging evidence in my face for a while; little wrinkles on my face, constantly parched forearm skin that had little lines like rivulets in the desert after a rain…a few errant white eyebrow hairs that needed pluckin’ now and again, never mind the more unmentionable ones. I remember thinkin’ one day: ‘What are some of my pop’s eyebrows doin’ over my eyes, anyway?’
By now it was pretty hard to imagine runnin’ to Mr. wd for reassurance; it’d feel akin to the Steve McQueen character in Papillon, after years of starvation and misery in a dark prison on Devil’s Island. “How do I look?” he’d asked his fellow prisoners. “Great”, they’d assure him; you could see him try to believe it. Nah, I didn’t wanna do that. He’d figure he was supposed to say somethin’ along the lines of “You look just like the hippie girl I married back when dinosaurs danced the cha-cha on earth.” But the thing is, had I asked, he may have meant it in a way, at least some of the time. That’s kinda how love is, isn’t it?
When we wrote our wedding vows, and said them in the park in Steamboat Springs before the Universal Free Life Church minister Tommy the Cobbler and an assortment of other friends, we didn’t promise to love each other or stay married forever. But we did tell each other that we hoped we would, and that we’d love it if we grew old together, and would remain each other’s best friends. And I reckon we have, even through the kerfuffle times we’d had to work through.
But aside from the disses about the current state of my body that the snooping and spying authored by our President’s massive security state has brung me, there’s another bit that just plain baffles me. I’d stick it in the category of ‘what do they think they know…that I don’t know?’ Almost daily now, when I’m at FDL, my pages are laced with ads asking if I’d like to date hot Chinese women (with youthful photos included, of course).
You figure it out; I don’t even wanna try…
But back to love and promises… maybe all we can reasonably ask of our mates, partners and significant others with the following question. We can have some faith that the answer will be ‘yes, and hopefully a whole lot of tomorrows’ (and maybe even further out in time: even once age and gravity have had their way with our bodies):