Every other Tuesday I treat myself to a full-hour massage at my chiropractor’s office. Curtis is awesome. He can make this senior citizen feel almost 50 again.
Curtis asks lots of questions while he is working on my sore body parts. For the past several months I haven’t been able to talk, have barely been able to lie on my stomach, and have learned to give up breakfast on massage days.
Today we had a full-blown convo: about Antonio Brown, the capital of South Dakota, and the #MeToo founders.
Curtis is almost as old as I am, and he doesn’t watch the news. So I spend most of the time filling him in on what is going on, like football star Antonio Brown being hit with a civil law suit for rape. Then another woman came forward yesterday, but neither woman had filed a police report, back in the day.
“Why’s that?” Curtis asked.
“Women didn’t come forward back then,” I said, “not until the #MeToo movement, you know, started by that child actress from Who’s the Boss.”
“Who’s the Boss?”
“You know, the show with Tony Danza.”
“No, Judith Light was the working mom, and Tony took care of the kids. What was her name? Allison somebody?”
This went on for a while. Then we gave up and tried to figure out the capital of South Dakota.
“Bismarck? Fargo? Cheyenne? Deadwood?”
“No, it starts with a D, an d it’s one syllable, I think,” I said. “Pierre?”
“Isn’t that down in Louisiana?” he asked.
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s in South Dakota.”
This went on and on. Later, when the chiropractor adjusted me, he Googled the capital – Pierre. He Googled the actress – Alyssa Milano.
I ventured off to the library for books, and after producing my 30-year-old and yellowing card, the librarian offered me a new one. I chose the otter card, because, you know, otters. They’re so danged cute!
Then I was driving home, feeling so massage-good and new otter card-good, that when I saw all the junk piled up on the curb for trash bonus day, I slowed down to take a look. I am such a scavenger. I drove past a red wagon filled with junk, did a u-turn, and asked the owners, who were in the garage, if I could have their wagon.
“Are you throwing that away? Could I have it?”
“It’s not in good shape,” the wife said.
“I just want it for gardening,” I said, “to move pots around, things like that.”
The wagon was forty years old with huge tires (not the originals) and plenty of use left, even if the veneer was peeling off the basin of the wooden frame.
The husband and wife watched from afar as I tried to get the thing into my Prius. Since I have a Prius V, the big one, I eventually got it to go inside, spider webs, handle and all.
“Thanks again!” I called as the wife and husband watched me pull away with all the memories that wagon had brought them.
What a morning! A massage and adjustment, a new otter library card, and a free souped-up red wagon, all before noon.
I had to run home and blog about it.
Life doesn’t get much better than that.