Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Chicks With Sticks

I wish I could say that I had made up the name, Chicks With Sticks, but the credit goes to my friend Susan.  She is also my friend who has the pool table in her basement, who conceived of the whole idea that a bunch of women over 40 needed to have a reason to play pool once a month, and who generously makes that happen in her home.  

The pool playing is one thing; the preliminary trash-talking in the days leading up to chick night is another.  Most of this happens by email, though there have been hollered threats across the Safeway parking lot at night, when two opposing chicks found themselves both out buying milk at 10PM.  You'd think we were all Minnesota Fats when, actually, we just about held a parade two months ago when Karen sunk a bank shot.

Still, who can't love some good, solid sports bravado? Like this email:

"Dear Anne: I hope you keep your eyeballs in your pocket, so they can see the ass-whuppin' I'm gonna give you Thursday night. Love, Deean"

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Some Things

I walked into the locker room at my gym today to get my suit on for my lunchtime swim.  It's a quiet gym, especially in the middle of the day, a time when there are always a couple of free lanes.  There was just one other woman in there and, naturally it being a locker room and all, she had not a stitch on.  Well, except for the band tattooed to her upper arm and the matching pair of silver nipple rings that hung from her B-cup breasts.  Other than that, she looked perfectly normal -- just another somewhat overweight gal pulling on her sensible cotton panties and repacking her navy blue gym bag.

I tried not to stare, but my eyes wouldn't stop tracking back to her, specifically to the parts of her that dwelled about a foot below her chin.  A co-worker came in and reached into the locker beside her and said something about how hard that step class had been.  Then they started kibitzing about the gal two cubicles down from them who just wouldn't stop yelling whenever she was on the phone.  What I thought of as normal just tilted slightly to the left.

Normally, I'm pretty unflappable about the personal physical habits people keep.  Sure I noticed the completely tattooed lady in the string bikini at the beach last year, but I could still get back to my book.  Gym gal nipple rings shocked my sense of propriety, that was clear.

I understand there must be certain recreational aspects to things like nipple rings.  Yet, I gave those hardly a passing nod.  Instead, all I could think about was this:

How will she ever nurse with those things?

That's when I realized that I really just have to sit myself down and admit that I am finally and unequivocally middle-aged.