“Camille, just once, can’t we relax like the three tired women over fifty we are without having to exert our flirt muscles?”
“Haven’t you ever heard, use it or lose it?”
“Weight, that’s about weight,” said Joanne, “read that in O Magazine.”
“Who asked you?” said Camille.
“Look at them,” I said, watching them eat, their mouths wide open like big baby birds. “They’re in their twenties, and we know what that means?”
“That they won’t pick up our check?” said Joanne.
“That we’ll have nothing in common, therefore, what’s the point?”
“Speak for yourself,” snapped Camille. “I have lots in common with any man, even if you don’t think so.”
Through trial and error I’ve learned younger men are not for me. I simply haven’t the patience. I have no desire to have sex like I’m being drilled for oil, and conversationally, they haven’t lived long enough to be interesting to me. Plus, they’re always hungry. The last younger man, and I mean the last, I had a little tryst with cost me a fortune. All I did was cook because according to him, sex sure works up an appetite. Where I needed a nap, he required pancakes.
I watched Camille, despite all I said, spin into action.
“Excuse me, “she said in that wispy Jackie O voice she overuses, “what’s that you’re having…looks like a tart.”
“Yeah, it’s apple,” said the guy sitting nearest to her.
“What else would a man order but a good old fashioned tart,” cooed Camille.
Of course he didn’t get the joke…tarts, men…sexual innuendo. A man in his fifties, even forties, would have picked that up like a twenty lying on the sidewalk. I loved his answer though.
“I really wanted the blueberry crumb but they’re out of it.”
Camille wasn’t giving up that easily. “So, what do you boys do besides look good enough to eat?” If she undid her blouse and sat on a plate she wouldn’t have been more obvious, but again, our pubescent titans hardly noticed.
“We work at Morgan Stanley,” said blueberry crumb. “Where do you all work?”
Here comes her trump card frayed at the edges. “We’re models, so we work all over the world.”
Yeah, like twenty years ago, but kept this to myself.
“Models, really? I never would have guessed that.”
“And why might that be?” bristled Camille. See, I knew the answer to this. Kate Moss looks like a model to them, not three girls…one with a droopy chin the other two sporting foreheads that don’t move.
“Don’t take this wrong,” he said like he was talking to his mom, “but aren’t you kinda old?”
OOPS..the O word.
“Maybe you need glasses. We’re anything but old honey.”
“Camille, let’s just finish our coffee and let this nice group of boys finish theirs.”
“We’re not boys…I just turned thirty on Wednesday,” said the blonde in a light blue button-down who all during this compelling repartee picked his cute little nose.
That alone should have sent for the check.
If you ask me, this age thing on all fronts is out of hand. Camille pretends she’s younger, this kid wants to be older.
I’m with you Kate.
Of course some of us would disagree.
Between Botox, tummy tucks and the art of lying, who says you can’t be thirty-five forever…
Camille, that’s who.