Camille and I had a libido to libido talk…sober, if you could believe that.
To break it down, neither of us is getting laid while taking various medications shelling out money to one doctor after another.
What happened to strappy sandals and margaritas in the afternoon?
I for one stopped drinking. When I was sick a month ago my taste buds went south, even for a nice glass of Cabernet at the Carlyle.
Nothing is more depressing than going out with drinkers when you’re not drinking, for them and…you. They feel self-conscious while you’re uncomfortable when their behavior pops a seam. “Hey you in that tweedy jacket…wanna come join us…yeah I mean you.”
You excuse yourself with a headache forgetting it was your line.
And as far as canoodling with that jacket goes…even the minibar in his room holds little appeal while your La Perla underwear collects dust.
Camille and I are very depressed over what I can only call a mean case of the early 60s. She’s taking a water pill she claims makes her skin like a saddle while I’m still recovering from all the Prednisone I was on.
I tell her we’re just not used to our new decade yet. It’s not exactly cozy perched on a slab in a paper dress while a doctor with a miner’s hat checks your butt for melanoma.
That will be 25 dollars please.
I’ve shelled out so many co-pays this month just for maintenance, it’s a pity my body doesn’t come with a warranty. “You’re 60 now Susannah…you need to make sure everything’s still running properly,” I’m told by the…who asked you people. They were running just great at 59…why do I suddenly feel like a Chevy whose speedometer kicked over.
I’d like to say I’m taking all this better than Camille, but I’m not. We’re both very cranky over what appears to be the new norm.
I love when someone says, “Well what’s the alternative?” Meaning six feet under or burnt to a crisp.
I can think of a few, like Jello Shots and being first in line at the Saks semi-annual Friends and Family Sale.
Maybe I’ll even pen Tom Ford a note suggesting he design a chicer paper dress so at least a girl can feel glamorous having her rear examined like its at NASA.
Of course when you’re told everything’s okey-doke you breathe a sigh of relief, until Doc says, “See you in six months, and that will be 25 dollars please.”