My first grade teacher, Miss Lisk…
The children’s room librarian in my hometown, Mrs. Newbury…
Our piano teacher, Granny Meiloch…
Both of my great aunts, Elenora & Margaret…
To this firmament, this veritable pantheon of old ladies can now be added the newest shining star. Me.
At the Y the other night I reached into the right pocket of my warm-up jacket for my ipod, and came up with a couple of clean squares of toilet paper. It’s the poor man’s tissue. Ain’t no big thing, right? We’re between seasons here in the Midwest, and sometimes a body finds her nose running. It’s only natural to be prepared.
It turns out my left jacket pocket was similarly occupied. Plunging a hand into the pocket of my sweatpants I came up with a slightly used Kleenex. Both pant’s pockets, actually.
It occurs to me that having tissues (in various stages of pristine-osity) in every single pocket on my person might indicate I’ve rushed right past “be prepared” and am on a collision course with “obsessed”.
I don’t have allergies. Nor, as far as I can tell, do I have an abnormal abundance of mucus. Yet I always have to keep a sharp eye out for tissues in the pockets before I throw my clothes in the wash. I’m sure I’m not the only one who has missed one and spent tedious hours picking tiny pieces of tissue off the inside of the machine and every other item of clothing in the load.
I wasn’t truly concerned about this, however, until today. I was reaching across my desk when a horrible sight met my incredulous eyes. There, at the end of my sleeve, a generous flash of white paper peeked out. It seems that, finding myself in a pocket-less ensemble, I had unconsciously stuffed a tissue up my sleeve.
A tissue up my sleeve? NO-O-O-o-o.o.ooooooo…!
What’s next? Glasses on a do-loop around my neck, resting on my ample, southward-pointing bosom? Support hose that bag slightly around scrawny ankles before disappearing into sensible, lace-up shoes? A sweater flung about my shoulders and chained together in the front to prevent a chill? The scent of Jean Nate dusting powder and mothballs gently wafting off me when I move?
I refuse to give in to this. I am a hot mama! I should have diamond bracelets around my wrist, for goodness sake, not Kleenex.
That does it. We’re going out tonight. Just you wait until you get a load of me in my go-to-clubbing togs. I’ve got some new black pants and flared jeans to choose from, both skin-tight. I’ll pair them with my new, 5-inch heels and a satin & sequin tank top. This lady’s gonna strut what God gave her all up in this town. You’ll probably read about me in the paper tomorrow, it will be so freakin’ epic.
Old lady? I’ll show you old lady. HA!
On second thought, I don’t think those black pants have any pockets. Maybe I’d better go with the jeans.
Be sure and vote for the finalists in The Jacket Writing Competition. One vote per day until Friday.