Do These Depends® Make My Butt Look Fat?

The past couple of years I’ve spend a fair amount of time around old people—or, I guess to be politically correct, senior citizens. Enough time to be scared stiff. As I ease into old age (or have I already arrived?), I’m trying to figure out what kind of old person I’ll be. Will I be active and feisty? Will I be depressed and defeated? Or will I be lucky enough to have any control over what kind of person I am?

I’ve been hanging around the nursing home lately. As a result, I’ve spent a fair amount of time wondering if I’ll end up in one someday. Not my goal, mind you, but my fear. A possibility. My friend landed in one over a year ago. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t her first choice of where to spend her golden years.

I’ve become acquainted with some of the residents as a result of my visits. There’s Tony, whom I’ve nicknamed “K.K,” because that’s pretty much all he says. Constantly. “K, K, K, K, K” (repeat). One day I thought I’d see if I could get him to say something else. (His chanting was driving me crazy.) As Tony sat in his wheelchair chanting his mantra, I said “Howya doin’, Tony?” He paused and said, “You’re right.” A man acknowledged I’m right. Go figure!

Margaret carries her doll around, anxiously inquiring whether I’ve seen the baby’s mother. I admire the baby, but that doesn’t calm her. She’s apparently tired of taking care of someone else’s baby. Can’t blame her.

Then there’s the old couple that sit together on the loveseat. I’ve never seen her face because she’s always slumped over with her face buried in her husband’s chest. He strokes her hair tenderly. It sets my mind to wandering — if I would be lucky enough to have someone stroke my hair if I’m ever in that position. No need to dwell on that.

I’ve decided that, if I ever end up in a nursing home, I will be the one with the hot pink stretch pants, the wild, flowered top and the bright orange house slippers. I’ll have cotton candy pink hair—or cotton candy blue---or maybe streaks of both. My walker will have chartreuse tennis balls at the end of the legs to help me slide along. I’ll be the first to arrive for bingo and the last to leave. And I’ll be the one admiring myself in front of reflective surfaces, asking passersby, “Do these Depends® make my butt look fat?”

Old age. Bring it!

(A postscript: Margararet's obituary was in today's paper. She was 91. I wish her a peaceful journey.)