So the presumably suburban parents are huddled in a corner as the kids are getting their lustrous and intricately ornate celtic costumes on, as the senior citizens at the senior center are having their lunch, awaiting this entertainment of cultural dance and music. It is a kaffeeklatsch type of thing I don't participate in, never have, for any of my kids, or more accurately, with the parents of the kids who may by some external accident be hanging out with my kids or kid. I'm not one who feels anything in common with the Nascar dads, lawyer types, moms or dads, soccer moms, professional harried types, let's just say: people who read John Grisham or people who think Syracuse has good pizza or who bemoan the price of gas for their S.U.V.'s or use the words "family room." Which is most anyone, these days.
The woman in the leather jacket, mousy hair, petite frame, wire-rimmed glasses, says to me, "So, you come here?" Or was it, "Do you belong here?"
I paused in disbelief, also allowing for her sidekicks to kick in with some laughter, which never came, just blank faces.
When you next look up "incredulous" in your Merriam-Webtser, not just any Webtser, mind you, you will see a photo of my face, and you will also conclude that this dawg (see blog profile photo) ain't old enough o be considered a senior citizen center habitue.
I mean, in plain English, what the feck?
I don't see me taking the sunset years placidly, mudderruckers.
"Do I what?"
"I don't know, I thought you might know about this place. They have so many active programs here, my parents live down the street, and..."
I spent the time during the danceout with Patty A. and his wife, Carol. Patty, me boyo, is older than me.
Doesn't look a day over 50, bless the lad.
I mean, really.
Does jet lag add that many years to you?
(Incidentally, as you can see, I'm back. I hereby promise to blog at least five days straight and to browse the blogging community. Been working hard on some monetary-inducing efforts.)