…are more a pain in the ass than they are in the leg.
Actually, it’s not necessarily the pain that concerns me, it’s more the fact that it turns me into a complete spasmodic imbecile in the middle of the night.
I’m glad to know though, that I’m not suffering alone!
I had lunch with a friend recently and during the course of our conversation, I discovered that she too suffers from this odd malady as well.
Misery loves company right?
We ran through the age appropriate symptoms we’re prone to, saggy neck, saggy boobs, saggy butt, but we kept coming back to those damned leg cramps.
“Sometimes my leg takes on a life of its own in the middle of the night,” she says.
“Sometimes my leg takes on a life of its own in the middle of the night and then it starts beating up my other well-behaved leg,” I say.
“Sometimes my leg takes on a life of its own and I ‘USE’ my other leg to beat the misbehavior into submission,” she says.
“Sometimes my leg takes on a life of its own…” I say pausing to catch my breath. “Oh hell, we’re just getting old.“
“Your are–I’m not,” she says.
“Are too! You’re older than me,” I say in defense of my three months younger than her youth.
“By what, one fucking hair?” she retorts.
As always, my hand flies up to my chin and sure enough–there it is!
That was what I was trying to remember all morning. I was supposed to get my tweezers back from little Miss Esthetician so I could remove the scraggly little unkempt hair that’s decided to take up residence on my chin. Damned her to hell! She’s going to pay for my friends remark when I get home.
“Are you inferring I have facial hair?”
“No. Just that I’m older by a smidgen,” she says.
“Oh. I see. We’re going to go there are we?”
She raises her eyebrow in answer.
“Maybe,” she says.
“Well, if you want to “string” this along,” I say, my smile broadening as I run my fingers through my thick dark hair.
She’s blonde and thinning. I know this will leave a scar.
She immediately goes into her Jaclyn Smith/Charlies Angels hair toss to fluff up her bangs. It’s always the same. Run the fingers through the hair to separate the strands so she can create the illusion of body. This is usually followed immediately by another shake of the head so everything falls into place.
“Speaking of smidgen, how’s the diet going?” she says breaking off a morsel of salmon that’s laying on top of the lettuce on her plate.
My fork stops midway to my mouth.
It’s pretty obvious my hand got the message, but my mouth must have missed it as it remained open awaiting the food. She knows I’ve been trying to drop twenty pounds.
I look at the huge twirl of pasta on my fork. I know there’s enough on it for two bites. For one brief moment, I consider dropping the fork back on to my plate feigning ‘I’m done’, but wait–I’m still starving. And I still want to finish that slice of warm french bread that I, only moments ago, slathered with butter.
I can’t really do numbers in my head but rough calculations estimate there’s at least 280 calories currently on my fork.
I look at the plate.
She might have me on this one!
My internal dialogue is rummaging around at the speed of light looking for a good comeback. Something snide, yet witty.
I got nothing.
Big fucking blank!
My hand goes on auto pilot and stuffs the pasta in my mouth.