So it’s going to be like this, is it?

Published July 1, 2015 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

Author’s note: If you know me on the allegedly real plane of existence, rest assured that I am fine. Nothing illegal or expensive happened.  I would appreciate keeping the mockery to a minimum. 

I’m older than I ever intended to be. This is my favorite line from the musical Chicago.

It’s not just my recent birthday that has me feeling this way.  I don’t feel any older and I think my psyche is quite young.  There are clues that I am, indeed, aging.

Case in point: I had my birthday events all planned out. I even planned my ensemble around my new boots. Now, because I’m not stupid, I knew I would need to break in my boots and plan a walk around my tile floor just to make sure I don’t slip and bust my ass in front of a very nice  restaurant on a Sunday evening.  As I was sashying around my house to one of the many songs on my special birthday playlist, I started busting some of formerly fly moves.  (What actually got me started was the title song to My One an Only. My feet remembered the basic tap routine I learned in college. The rest of me was delighted and proceeded to contiune in my my my my boogie shoes.  Then my iPod decided to throw me “Jump Jive and Wail” followed by “Get Low.” Two very diferent songs and I was a bit giddy with delight at my eclectic tastes. I was starting to sweat and told myself I should take a break after the next song.

In the process of Getting Low, I pulled a muscle in my back.

Which leads me to the next part of the adventure.

As you may remember, I lost my dear friend Steve a few years back.  We lost several friends just prior to his illness and he was proclaiming that he was going to be next.  I turned to him and said, “How do you know it’s not going to be me?” He didn’t miss a beat and boomed, “You had your chance and you didn’t take it!” So now, apparently, I have to go back to the end of the line.

I think of this little tidbit whenever I complain about getting older, because some always invariably chimes in “Well, it beats the alternative!” It may not, depending on what Mr. Steve has doomed me to.

It just so happens that my neurologist’s NP piped up with that when I relayed the biggest events of the last year. (The whole teaching by fire thing, with all of the problems and triumphs therein.  But first she asked me what Anti-anxiety meds I was on and did I want something stronger.

Why yes, yes I do. So I kind of let the alternative state go by that.

So I breezed through my last few days of being 45, mostly because I didn’t want to spend those days being a grump. (And I did have the new exciting meds.)

Then we came to the the birthday. Let me say my friends and my family helped me celebrate and it was quite lovely. Actor Boy got the ball rolling with a phone call at 11:59 so he could be the first one to wish me a happy birthday.

I had breakfast with my Amanda Friend, AOG and Tall Boy.  We had sausuages and cinnamon rolls with orange icing. Then I went home and took a light nap before I benumbed my hide with Icy Hot so I could go have dinner at the luxiurious restaurant of my choice. I even got chauffered.

Those of you who know me may be wondering if the wait staff turned into the spriniting undead and began to claw and bite the patrons, or if perhaps I got food poisoning or tucked my skirt into the waistband of my undewear, thereby mooning the entire Sunday dinner crowd.

No, my dinner was lovely. I spent time with my family (I really like my family. It’s a blessing and a curse.)

I came home and watched TV trying to decide if I wanted to sling myself the half block to the Dive Bar that features Sunday night Karaoke. I was in good mood, so I changed into my non-slippy shoes and comfy pants. My friend, let’s call him CB was planning to meet me there with a friend of his, so I wasn’t doomed to a lonely night holding up the bar while the caterwauling commenced.

I was full of steak and other birthday treats so I didn’t have the room or inclination to drink like a monster. I did have a lot of club soda which made me burpy, but there were no unforseen belching into the microphone moments.  Things were going well. (Here’s the part in the horror movie where the audience is beginning to clue in that there’s going to be a jump scare very soon.)

CB’s friend is a very pretty girl who is young enough to be my daughter, yet still old enough to drink. (It burns! It burns!) CB likes the pretty girl. The pretty girl likes him back. At that moment, it is last call and two of the strangest looking young men I have ever seen come rolling in. (Just imagine. Someone that I think is strange looking. And I know strange.)  According to CB one of them is very interested in pretty girl. I don’t know which one, so I immediately start to run interference. I challenged one of them to arm wrestle. (It’s nice to see that I’m just as stupid now as I have every been.)

Anyway, the bartender wanted to go home, so we all went out to the parking lot.  I walked CB to his car because he was very angry, Marvin the Martian angry, and friends don’t let friends get all whipped up into a rage a.nd  drive.  There was quite a bit of time spent of CB in his car texting wildly. Pretty girl got into the car with the guys. CB gunned the engine. I got out of the way and got lightly bumped by the fender.  I’M FINE. I just twisted my ankle and scraped up my knee. I have given myself worse injuries trying to shave my legs.  Pretty girl and the Boys (World’s worst Strip club.) asked me if I was ok, I assured them I was and I got in my car and drove the half block home.  I immediately called CB and screamed into the phone

“You hit me with your car, you dick!”

But my back doesn’t hurt anymore.

And we’re back.

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