My prowess in sports is of legend. Not! Since my high school days I have tried to be “one of the boys,” but fate has been against me. My size, height and, above all, fear of the ball doomed me. Of particular memory is an afternoon with my friend Gloria and her constant buddy and phys. ed. partner Francine “Frank.” We went to the Jewish Community Center which had some bowling lanes in the basement and met up with classmate Linda Lavin (years later TV’s “Alice”… ask a senior) and made two teams.
Never having played before, I blindly chose a ball weighing 10 pounds, if an ounce; with holes I could barely get my fingers into plus shoes much too small. Nevertheless, I butchly declared I was ready to knock down those pin things. Linda and Frank smiled, Gloria rolled her eyes and off we went.
Details are unnecessary, but by the end of game (“frame”) my wrist was badly swollen, my thumb bleeding and my toes forever misshapen. Of course, Linda and Frank won and Gloria was most unkind in her comments. I thought my score of 62 was quite respectable considering the circumstances and that’s counting the time I stroked.
When we were putting things away, I picked up Linda’s ball to put on the rack and found it weighed about two pounds with holes large enough for three burritos; equally upsetting was finding my shoes had come from the children’s shelf.
When I complained that no one told me there were different sizes, the girl roared with laughter and exclaimed what a clown I was. They were certain I had deliberately played the game so pathetically on purpose to make them laugh.
Naturally I congratulated them in seeing through my little joke and silently vowed never to play again.
Welcome home fantasy
Many seniors, by choice or circumstances, find themselves living alone. I don’t mind it usually, but now and then, I wish I could come home to something warm to cuddle with and which would greet me with ecstasy and smother me with rapturous kisses. You know, a dog.
Lesbians seem to be fond of cats, but only a few of my male friends are. I’ve nothing against cats, but I’ve come in contact with so few I never know if I should pat them, stroke them or fondle them.
As I ponder the situation, the reality of the limitations of a senior’s lifestyle dawn. For one thing, our apartment/condo complexes often do not allow dogs or they restrict their size. I reluctantly agree with this policy. For their general health, large dogs need lots of indoor living/romping space, not just space for their daily walks and toilet.
Those lucky enough to have a house with a backyard have expanded possibilities. But danger lurks: cats and small dogs look tasty to the occasional coyote (yes we have them) and raptors. A few years ago I watched a friend’s dachshund puppy get snatched by a hawk from his front sidewalk as we were chatting six feet away. Talk about a hysterical queen! My friend was upset too.
As I weigh the pros and cons, I not only worry about traveling and farming out the dog, but I reject the burden of having to be home at certain times. How often have I heard, “Sorry, have to leave. Fifi will be furious if I’m late,” or the case where the dog runs the show, “How cute. He won’t let me sit in my chair.”
Perhaps I’ll get a beautiful, affectionate poodle like a dear friend just did. I envy the situation, but then again, if anyone in my house is going to have pink toenails and a rhinestone choker, it’s going to be me!
