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January 11, 2011 • Page 7
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LAURA ON LIFE
Geriatric pick-up joint
This is an excerpt
from Laura On Life:
Corn Dogs and Dust
Bunnies, Amazon.com:
When you have
been married for as
long as my husband
and I have, you’ll
always be on the
lookout for some
activity that you can
both do together.
This activity would
preferably be something that did not
cause concussions,
frostbite, or height
anxiety. In other
words; no extreme
sports.
He and I have
always had our separate interests, but we
are so different that
sometimes we need to
put some real effort
into finding something that will bring
us together for an
hour or two. Something other than
baby-making, that is.
That is an activity for
which we certainly
don’t need any more
practice.
You see, I’m the
put y
ou
r
arts, crafts, and cultural part of our twosome and he is the
epitome of the absent-minded professor. You could put us
both in the same
situation; say, a car
accident. My husband would be plotting angles, mass and
velocity to prove that
the accident wasn’t
his fault. I, on the
other hand, would
stare at the mixture
of anti-freeze, oil, and
sparkling broken
glass and think how
beautiful it was when
the sunlight hit it
just so.
There was a time a
few years ago, when I
talked my husband
into taking dancing
lessons with me. Not
just the two-step or
line-dancing, mind
you. I’m talking
ballroom dancing. At
first I didn’t think he
would agree. He’s not
the ballroom dancing
type. I told him that
I wanted to learn
because I don’t want
to be embarrassed
when one of our children gets married
and we are required
to dance at the reception.
When we got married back in the last
millennium, learning
how to dance never
entered our minds.
In fact, we were quite
shocked to learn that
the German oom-papa band that we hired
for the occasion would
require us to dance. I
know, I know, how
very strange. But
what could we do?
You can’t fire a band
in the middle of your
wedding reception.
So we gamely locked
our arms around each
other as if we were in
the back seat of his
car, and slowly moved
around the dance
floor in no particular
pattern. The only
thing that resembled
a waltz in this parody
was the fact that both
of us were determined
not to step on the
other’s toes.
After the waltz
ended, the band
Laura Snyder
picked it up a notch
and swung into a
rollicking polka. My
new husband and I
had such a look of
dismay and backed
away from each other
so fast, spectators
probably thought that
one of us suddenly
passed a particularly
malodorous pocket of
gas.
We survived our
wedding, of course,
and as for that travesty of a first dance,
well, we could be
excused because we
were young, in love,
&
and providing free
food to the attendees.
When any of our
children marry, however, we will be expected to dance and
dance well. So we
went to the first class
determined that we
would be the best
darn ballroom
dancers they ever
saw.
The building was a
fanciful building in a
not-too-savory section
of town. It was made
up to look like a
palace, but the aqua
and pink paint put
me in mind of a Miami brothel. We went
inside and found that
we were the only
people under sixty in
the joint. Not that
we have anything
against old people. In
fact, I aspire to be
one someday.
We danced together
with a trainer for a
half-hour and then
joined the others.
The next trainer
decided that no one
should stay with the
same partner for
more than 60 seconds.
Like a baton in a
geezer relay race, I
found myself passed
from one seventy-year
old Don Juan wannabe to another; each
one trying out his
special never-beenknown-to-fail leer on
the new young chick.
When we left this
geriatric pick-up joint
later that evening,
my husband declared
that he’s never
smelled so much
cheap perfume or
been fondled by so
many old ladies since
he stumbled into a
Red Hat convention
on New Year’s Eve.
We agreed that
when it came time for
our children to marry,
we would pay them to
elope.
Laura Snyder is a nationally syndicated columnist,
author & speaker. You can
reach Laura at lsnyder@lauraonlife.com Or visit her website www.lauraonlife.com for
more info.
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