Chapter Four – The World Can Kiss Our Attitude
We never decided what to name our group of six middle-aged women friends. Suggestions varied from “Six Pack” to “Six in the City” to “We Were Seven but One Died.” Every time we met, we would vote on a new name, but we couldn’t agree so we stayed with the “Midlife Happy Hour Club.”
“That’s so boring,” Kitty said. “Can’t we add something sexy?”
“How about that waiter?” Linda replied. The joke was old, but we were, too. We clinked our glasses, savored the martinis and wine, and settled into a familiar pattern of camaraderie. We had promised Pam, the one who died from breast cancer, that we would carry on without her.
“Chop them off now so you won’t get sick!” She’d whispered at the end, as we took turns pressing ice chips onto her lips. We nodded in solemn agreement. “And promise me you’ll all stay friends. Keep laughing. You don’t need boobs to laugh.”
Over the years, the Midlife Happy Hour Club gathered regularly to acknowledge the fact that life sucked so we should laugh hard. The agenda varied, and we could grow equally passionate about politics, religion, nail polish, or the best stool softener. Sometimes we placed a glass for Pam.
Birthday Card Blues
One memorable occasion was to celebrate Linda’s birthday. Such annual affairs often took a wicked turn as greeting cards turned into cruel and unusual punishment for still being alive.
“I’m weary of birthday cards that mock seasoned women,” said Debby. “Over the hill, my ass. We couldn’t climb a hill taller than a plate of cookies even with sturdy tennis shoes and an industrial crane.” We agreed and vowed to stop sending each other stupid, insulting cards. Unless, of course, the card included a lovely photo of fit, shirtless dudes in cowboy hats. We’re shallow like that.
A flock of perfect women tittered past on heels that cost more than my first car. “Look at her,” laughed Debby as she adjusted her don’t-give-a-shit matronly body. “She’s so skinny if she swallowed an olive it would show in front and back. I should stab her with a fork to make sure she’s not a poster.”
Linda, the birthday babe, gasped with feigned indignation. “I read that some women are paying for a fake butt. Can you imagine making your behind bigger on purpose? I can see mine even when I walk forward, and I didn’t pay a dime extra for it!”
“Stop,” Jenniffer said with mock chagrin. “At least we don’t have periods anymore and can wear white pants without worry.”
“Ha!” I retorted. “The last time I wore white pants my grandkids told me to hold still so they could show a movie on my butt.”
We Love Midlife Happy Hour
Kitty bit into a carrot cake muffin smeared with enough cream cheese frosting to adhere a Buick to the wall. “Mmm,” she moaned. “I just eat this for the vegetables.”
“True,” I agreed. “And this medicinal lemon drop martini has just enough citrus to cure my scurvy.”
We giggled and snorted with middle-aged abandon. We loved the glamorous gals, we really did, but our biggest consolation was knowing they were growing older, too, and would someday arrange their own midlife happy hour. By then, we would be watching reruns of The Carol Burnett Show and reading salacious novels in big type. We would live together in a quaint cottage near the park and pool our savings accounts to hire off-duty firemen to rub our feet. It was a glorious plan.
(I’ll be reading excerpts from three books Friday evening in Garden City, Idaho at an event I’m hosting titled “ATaste of Poetry: Conversations with John Roedel.” John Roedel will read from his poetry and discuss storytelling to a sold-out audience. My readings will include three genres: memoir, children’s books, and humor. This excerpt is from “Midlife Happy Hour – Our Reward for Surviving Careers, Kids, and Chaos.” The book was a finalist for “Book of the Year for Humor” and won two writing awards from the Independent Press Book Awards program.)