Talking with one of my best friends recently, we were conversing, again, about becoming Medicare babes. For those of you that are not inhabitants of the United States, the Medicare word is associated with having reached the tender, lovely and mature age of 65. There is plenty to talk about, analyze, etc. You get the drift.
I was telling her about my new beautiful pink shoes. Loved these shoes, but after I purchased them and brought them home, I tried to walk with them on, to have a better feel and to get used to this new daring and darling pair of high heel pumps. After a few steps, I started to question my mindset when I purchased these beautiful shoes. Loved them…but I pictured that around the end of the evening, someone will have to pick me up me with a spatula from the dancing floor.
Yes, I do dance and did the wobble at my daughter’s wedding. I am worthy of dancing with the smallest shinning speck in the sky. But, after my first attempt at being a celebrity in the Randy to the Rescue, Washington, D.C. episode, I really don’t want to deal with paparazzi. Go figure.
As a Medicare-Babe-to-be, my mind thinks mid-thirties, my body acts anyway it feels like, but not necessarily in agreement with my mind.
Getting in the vintage stage of our lives can be fun, interesting and a royal pain on my feet. Loved those pink pumps, but…they went back to the store to torture another pair of feet. I must clarify that they were half a size too big, otherwise they would be torturing mine, with controlled pleasure.
With that very profound pondering, I must leave now.
Your Happy Contessa
“It is not how old you are, but how young you think.” …yeah, right…tell it to the Marines.