Poems About Aging
Today is my birthday.
And given that I am "of a certain age", I will not disclose the number of years I've been alive, but, rather, how utterly difficult I am to buy presents for. What did I ask Sergei to get me? An eggbeater. One of those old-fashioned kinds where you hold a handle and turn a crank and two beaters just whirr away like crazy mad insane.
'Cause they're frickin' awesome!
Oh, and I think a couple movies. And to have my car cleaned out, which smells like a barn, but only because two children have littered it with food and soccer-cleat-mud and used kleenex and smushed M&Ms and I believe, maybe, some bodily fluid that it's really better that I NOT know about.
I'm a few years older than Sergei. I robbed his cradle, which, so far, has kept me from getting laugh lines but didn't help much in the 'breasts-going-south' endeavor. Which doesn't phase Sergei at all, but which I secretly bitch about every time I see my nakedness in the mirror. I can't even talk them into moving up half an inch, I mean, c'mon, I'm not talking balancing the federal budget, I'm talking about nips that point upwards!
So I talk to them. Something like:
Me: Hi! How's about coming north for the winter? It's cool here! You'll be all perky!
So getting older sucks, blah blah blah. The guys at work decided that our department would use the never-used "Department Fun Day" option to celebrate my day. We're all leaving at Noon, going out for lunch...and BEER, dammit!...and then to a movie, on the company credit card. We'll prolly see "Serenity", cause I loves me a good sci-fi, and I'm in the IT department, and us geeks loves us some futeristic special fx. And naked chicks. (Hey, I can appreciate a nice set of knockers.) I thought briefly about taking them to see this, or even this, both of which I really want to see, but decided, nah, laser guns and dialogue a la Buffy the Vampire Slayer would be killer.
Today's Poetry Friday will be about, of course, aging. 'Cause I just couldn't get all hepped up about writing about my 'gina. That'll be next week.
So, without further delay:
Poems About Aging
With All Apologies to AA Milne:
It’s a very funny thought that, if I’d been this smart at age twenty-two,
I’d be a sooper-genius, president, millionaire computer-guru.
And that being so (if my brain were now to regress),
I’d be drunk and passed out on the lawn, naked, and a mess!
With All Apologies to Emily Dickenson:
There is another girl,
Ever sexy, spunky, slim;
And there is another girl,
Though she has a brain quite dim;
Never mind the coeds, Sergei,
Never mind the open sorority blinds –
Here is a womanly body,
Whose legs are ever open.
Here is a sexpot,
With her hands forever gropin’
In my luscious body,
I throb and long for thee,
Come away from the window
And come into me!
With All Apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning and any Portuguese out there:
I thought once how David Bowie had sung
Of the golden years, the sweet and calming years,
When a mate beside you in his rocking chair appears,
Bearing gifts of Depends, Ensure, an iron lung;
And, as I licked my lips sensuously with my tongue,
I saw, in the crowd of actors there,
A young man in a flannel shirt, with dark brown hair,
And into his strong arms my body was flung.
He was so young! Right away I was struck
By the fact that I could have been his babysitter,
In years past, and what fortunate luck
To feel my pink snoopy all a-twitter –
“Hey”, I said, “How’s about a fuck?”,
His answer rang – “Yes! You’re a horny critter!”
With All Apologies to W.B. Yeats:
Turning and turning in my big warm bed,
The ears do not hear the alarm clock;
Things fall apart; my waistband cannot hold;
My heart is beating like an overworked hummingbird,
The morning sun is loosed, and everywhere
The comfy cushions call to me;
My best intentions don’t mean a damn, while the worst
Are eaten up with gobs of whipped cream.
Surely some breaking point is at hand;
Surely the Second Alarm Clock is near my hand.
The Second Alarm Clock! Hardly are those words out
When a sharp image out of Sears and Roebuck
Catches my attention; somewhere, in the appliance section,
A clock with a loud buzzer and a George Jetson flip-up spring,
An earth-shattering din that will shake my old bones awake,
Is going to be charged on my credit card, while at the same time
I order the softest pillows and comforter available.
The nighttime comes again, but now I know
That eight hours of dreamless sleep
Would probably give me nightmares anyway,
And what rough sleep, its hour being far too late,
Slouches to the computer to blog the night away?
With All Apologies to both Simon AND Garfunkel:
Slow down, you move too fast,
I’m an old lady, my butt’s vast,
Just shufflin’ down the grocery aisle
Lookin’ for bread and feelin’ creaky.
Wanna join me, do some shoppin’?
Ain’t ya got no mush for me?
Got no work to do
No bladder control.
I’m powdered and perfumed and ready to roll.
Let the bagboy take my load out for me,
Bunions, I love you,
All is creaky.
Go ahead, have some cake tonight, or perhaps a lovely slice of flan, and wonder if the fountain of youth would taste like kool-aid or grain alcohol!