I saw the same old man two days in a row. He wore a straw boater with a brilliant red band and matching socks and tie. His royal blue pants rode high to show off his ladies' knee socks and of course he wore red sneakers. He was tall and cartoon strip thin. I could have been old like that. Or like my 87 year old friend Beverley who is only now beginning to slow down. Or like my granny whose crinkly velvet skin and enormous pillowy breasts were just right for cuddling.
I'm wearying. The Shakespearean comedy of mistaken identities that I find myself starring in is getting old. The play is called " Switched at Death " and it is the story of a fiercely independent woman with an unusually quick brain and a zesty sense of adventure who is accidentally assigned the wrong death -slow and irritating and frustratingly helpless. Our heroine is forced to have somebody do everything for her and often with baffling results. Meanwhile a limp and passive devotee of reality TV gets to, through some massive clerical error, die riding a motorbike through a hoop of fire across a large canyon. The bike swerves off course and it's quick and dramatic, this fiery red and orange death.
Where the fuck is my motorbike and my hoop of fire???