My husband and I are lucky in having a tried and true posse of friends who are like family.
We’re a typical group connected through friendships, dating, and marriage. Where we are atypical is more than three-quarters of us have crossed paths or been by each other’s side through childhood shenanigans. We’ve grown together as adults, felt losses and celebrated victories together. I am so very thankful for this crew. They are framily.
One couple in the group always throw this fabulous holiday party, and it’s something to look forward to every year.
Some of us spend the evening catching up with other friends on what has happened in the past year. Others check in with the usuals on how they felt after last weekend’s beer tour. There is a lot of food and drink followed by a Christmas quiz, which if you don’t get Mark as a partner, you lose. As the night wears on, we turn into 7th graders and split into two groups. The ladies move to one room and chat by the fire, while the guys are in another, talking about whatever. It was on this magical evening that I bit into a cookie and felt a consummate crack in one of my bottom front teeth. I put my hand over my mouth, mid-bite, and hightailed it to the bathroom to confirm if what I felt was real.
One look in the mirror and, my verification is complete; I was now a gap-toothed forty-something.
All I could say was “why? I’m not 90 years old!” I entered the guys’ room, aka the kitchen, grabbed my husband, and announced we needed to leave. He looked at my now trillion dollar smile and was disappointed to hear that no, I had not been in a brawl in the other room. I had to parade around with a forced grin so that everyone could see the new zoo animal. After a chorus of “wow, your tooth is gone” and “you poor thing” we finally left the party. It took six months, and two phases of oral surgery to have an implant, and be on my merry way. End of story.
My tooth falling out wasn’t something to dwell on.
I’d be happy if it weren’t mentioned in my presence ever again.
Do you remember the movie “16 Candles”? There’s a scene where Samantha sees her grandparents and asks how they are. Samantha’s grandparents each give their answer at the same time “Well my corns are killing me” says one, “My back hurts and…” The answers given are about their health.
Health issues tend to crop up when you’ve spent close to a century stomping around this great green and blue globe.
I am convinced I suffered pre-mature aging the minute my tooth fell out. Afterall, teeth falling out is part of the progression of life right?
THE GAME PLAN.
We’ve all debated plans for our older years. This bunch we spend our time with refuses to admit we are aging, thank goodness. One of these friends suggested that instead of talking about our health, we should create newsworthy scenarios that we can then discuss when we see each other. When I meet someone for coffee in the future, I hope my first sentence begins with “Get a load of this.”
We discussed chatter inducing ideas. “Why don’t we arrange a soft-mugging,” said one friend. “Plant a mysterious substance in one of our yards,” said another. Does that sound too extreme? The criteria are vague at this point. I’d like to make it official so that we can get this ball rolling. I’ve got near-crimes to commit people!
As Robert Browning once said, “Grow old along with me. The best is yet to be.” I’d like to add “hilarious” to the end of that sentiment.
Some Loose Guidelines for Consideration:
1. Create a scenario that has talk-value.
2. Nothing illegal. Incarceration doesn’t look good for retirement.
3. “Grow Old Along with Me” is a game. Nothing hurtful, please.
4. There should be some clue of who the “assailant” is.
Grab a group of friends and GO!
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