My 100-person chorus meets once a week. It is comprised of people in all stages of life, young singles, young married people with children, pregnant women, middle-aged folks, and old timers. There are divorcees, widows, and one guy on Match.com. It’s a conglomeration of all types and ages.
At my massage yesterday, I was telling the female massage therapist that I have a bad stomach and that dairy products make me gassy. She suggested goat milk ice cream. I wonder where I’d need to go to buy that. Anyway, I can eat ice cream six days a week if I want to but never on Tuesdays. That’s rehearsal day, and we sit on top of one another.
“Why can’t you sit in the back?” she asked.
I told her we have assigned seats and that the director moves us around a lot to listen for the best blend of voices.
“Just look around and let people blame it on someone else,” she said.
I told her that sometimes I sit between two much younger women and that everyone knows it’s the old ladies who do the farting.
She laughed, and I decided it would be a good topic for a blog post. After six and half years, I might be running out of ideas. What started as a worst date blog has morphed into everyday situations of a Medicare senior and her outlook on life.
I write this at my sister’s house in the Santa Cruz mountains at 7:00 a.m. as I watch daylight coming and the hundreds of trees outside the guestroom window turn from black silhouettes into deep green trees with textured brown trunks. It rained and hailed yesterday. The air is crisp at 46 degrees.
My mother is in the next room, struggling with life. Hers is coming to a close. Her mental capacities are there. She knows what she wants. I am here one last time with her.
This post was supposed to be funny, about old ladies at chorus rehearsal farting from their dairy intake. It has morphed into something else.
Sorry/not sorry.
Writing is therapy, a chance to put it down, examine it, and then somehow, let it go.
FIRST DATE, WORST DATE EVER! 