Thank you for the birthday card. I was happy to hear from you despite the gravity of the occasion. I’ve been struggling to accept the phenomenon of chronology the past few months leading up to this day.
The last time I had a three in my age was seven years ago when I was fresh out of grad school. Back then that three stood submissively in its proper place at the back of the line. Today though, he’s standing there right out front full of piss and vinegar, a smug look of defiance on his face. And he’s partnered with the least confident number of all. Seems odd that this particular age would be considered a landmark year given that unusual pairing.
I don’t know why I let it bother me so much. Maybe it’s because the stuff belonging to a certain person is still laying around everywhere. I just can’t bring myself to box it up and give it back. They are apparently too busy to miss it. You see, I didn’t tell you but I’ve been in a pretty serious relationship for the past several months. No you never met the person.
We met at this cool new place I started hanging out at about eight months ago. It was nice meeting so many new people. Well, not exactly new people. New to me I guess. It was a very nice place. One of those with lots of funtivities and a big game room.
So I met someone there and we dated for awhile. They lived there and I’ll be honest, I was sort of infatuated by them. Just my type actually. Not quite what you might expect though. You see there’s something I’ve never told you or anyone else.

Maybe it’s the confidence of hiding behind this email that is helping me let my guard down with you, but on this landmark day I find myself unable to resist full disclosure. It feels so good to let this out after so many years. You’re my brother after all. If I can’t confide in you with something like this, then who else would possibly understand and support me? (Are you feeling the pressure to accept what I’m about to tell you? 
You see this person and I were really compatible. It’s because I’ve had a thing for people like this since I can’t even remember. Back in high school, I had this secret shoe box and I would clip pictures out of magazines and keep them inside it. While you were sneaking glances at the ladies lingerie section of the JC Penney catalogue, I was ripping pages out of a different section. If you or anyone else had found my box and seen the pictures I kept inside, I’d have curled up into a little ball and tried to disappear. But I’m older now. Maybe I care less about what the world thinks. Regardless, it feels great to finally embrace the new me. Well, the less secret me. Because the truth is, it’s a different demographic to whom I’ve always been most attracted.

My thing is older women…

…About sixty three and up.

…With frosted hair. And I like it when they wear knee high stockings. The thick, beige ones…”nude” I think they call it. You know, rolled up just beneath the knee. They tend to go really well with something else that I’m kind of embarrassed about. I’ve never told anyone this so you have to swear you’ll keep quiet. I have a ladies shoe fetish.

No not high heels. I’m into “comfort” shoes. You know…those of the orthopedic variety…aka nurse’s shoes, cafeteria worker’s shoes, you get the idea. Rockports, Keds, Reeboks…anything with huge soles and a nice bright, snowy white color. Excuse me a moment while I compose myself…Just talking about them makes my blood run hot.

There, I’m okay now. There’s just something about a fine foxy (Grand) Momma with the aromatic scent of mothballs on her vintage Cardigan, schoolteacher sweater. I’m serious. You don’t know how much I fantasize when I smell old clothes and those little white marble sized balls in mom’s closet. Geez I hope that doesn’t make me a weirdo. You’d tell me if it did, right?

But I’m not looking for a serious thing right now. This recent break up with the person at the senior center has been difficult on me. I only want to date for fun right now. I guess she’s still a sore spot for me. Mildred was a special lady, but we just grew apart. We had been dating for the past several months. I would spend the night in her room a couple times a week. Her roommate was cool with it. Well, even if she weren’t comatose, she probably would have been cool with it.

But when I saw her at the Barbershop Quartet-a-Palooza Concert in the chapel, she seemed different. “We have to talk,” she said, and my blood ran thick and sluggish. She offered me a couple of her Cumaden and I took them. I’m not proud of that. We sat outside in the courtyard, by the reflection fountain and she said I just wasn’t as exciting as I used to be. I guess I can see her point. Back when things were good I would pick her up from the Senior Center at one and we would burn the afternoon oil and hit up the K&W around four thirty. I know, RIGHT? What kind of party animal eats dinner after four o’clock for pete’s sake?!? But our passion was impulsive and selfish. We knew no boundaries.

We were rebels. We didn’t care what the others at the Center thought about us. We saw the mean looks when we’d get caught coming out of the janitor’s closet with her hair all messed up. I told her we should put it back onto her head before coming out in the hallway, but she never listened. Well that’s not fair, she actually would listen. It’s just that she kept leaving her hearing aids on the nightstand beside the Kraftmatic.

At craft time we used to make dirty sculptures out of the macaroni and construction paper. She could be so bad sometimes! The stories she would tell me about the 1930’s would blow your mind. Great Depression my ass!

But then the unthinkable happened.

My schedule changed. I had to work more often and I couldn’t volunteer at the Center anymore. My mind became pre-occupied with making money to pay for my new Buick Roadmaster. I had only bought it to impress her. But I don’t get no senior discount, so the payments were eating me alive. I had to work overtime to stay above water. So I forgot about Applesauce Wednesdays and Bingo Bongo Thursdays. She was okay with it at first, she really loved riding around in that car, but it eventually wore her down. She had lost that sparkle in her tri focals. Looking back I feel terrible about it. There were only a few things she ever asked of me and I let her down with the biggest one—quality time. But I was just too preoccupied with the material things and I didn’t give her the love and support hose she needed.

Then she met someone who could give her the time I wouldn’t and what little we had left crumbled away to nothing. He was tall, blonde and handsome…in a short, dark and average sort of way. Gustavo had me beat in age and availability. I just couldn’t compete with a twenty-year old Mexican, nursing home janitor with a vast knowledge of silent films and World War I trivia. Mildred fell head over heels for him. And he knew it too. He would show off on Movie Monday by reciting the words of the film before they even popped up on the screen. He even wore sepia colored clothing so he’d match Charlie Chaplin and the other actors on screen.

But it was his amazing performance of the dance number from Singing in the Rain that really won her heart. As an employee of the Center, he should not have been allowed to participate in the Spring Talent show, but no one said anything. So there he was, hopping and skipping around in Recreation Room “B” like some kind of big shot Hollywood actor complete with an umbrella and a sombrero. I told Mildred that Bing Crosby never wore a freaking sombrero, but she wouldn’t listen. I bent down to her ear and sure enough…no hearing aids…again. She just sat there glowing and clapping her hand at Gustavo’s stupid dance moves.

So he won her heart and I had to move on with life. She couldn’t face me anymore. I guess that means something. She ended up transferring to another place up in Rowan County. Word is they have a pudding buffet every Sunday. Gustavo got a promotion there so they could be together. He’s the chief Enema Technician. I guess that’s good enough for me.

Sorry, I guess I had to vent. No one else wants to hear me whine about her anymore. And you’re easy to talk to. Thanks for listening.

So anyway, be on the lookout for a rebound buzzard for me (”chick” is probably a less accurate word in my case). All I want is someone special to crochet me some mittens again. I miss having that special someone to share nude Rascal scooter races, our tires squeaking down the linoleum hallway, skin flapping in the breeze. I long to have a training partner again for the chugging contests in the cafetorium on Metamucil Monday.

Now I can’t even bring myself to volunteer there anymore. I’ve mostly moved on from Mildred and the Center. But some days it’s so very difficult. It’s the people I’ll miss most. Mildred and I had a core group of close friends. We would sit around in the Senior Center coffee nook, drinking de-caff and Ovaltine and talk about life and funny situations. It was just like the TV show Friends, except for the hair. On the show, Rachel’s, Pheobe’s and Monica’s hair wasn’t quite so “non-grey” and Chandler’s, Joey’s and Ross’ wasn’t quite so “not there”.

Geez I miss the Center gang, especially on a day like today though. I guess I’d thought when my birthday rolled around we would all hang out and party like it was 1899. I miss those lazy Saturday mornings when we’d wake up from our slumber party under the Cribbage tables. We would sleep in until seven AM and then play “Who’s Teeth are These?” laughing our butts off until someone strained too hard and had to get changed. My posse…Our nickname was Grandson and the Geezers. Guess which one I was.

The coolest thing though was that most of the folks in my posse were actually IN a real Wild West posse when they were younger. Just a fun fact.

Anyway, thanks again for the birthday wishes. I appreciate your support. Don’t worry, I’m not going to mope around all day on my special day. I’ll get back on that horse soon. Literally. Today there is mobile petting zoo visiting another senior center I’ve got my eye on. I hear there are going to be pony rides.