Adventures With Old Ladies

I mean that in the nicest of ways, seriously.

January of 2010, I started attending a grief works class at my local hospital, the same one where my husband died.  This was a 6 week class that we attended, learning how to deal with our grief.  Most of us were very fresh in our grief, and I think all of us widows had lost our husbands in late 2009.  Though none of us wanted to be there (who would anyway, right?), we bonded instantly, and have kept up with seeing each other once a month.  There are 12 of us, but not everyone can make it to every monthly luncheon.

When I first stepped into those classroom doors at the hospital, I was pissed off because I was the youngest.  And jealous.  Oh was I jealous.  All these women had been married to their husbands for almost, or, 50 years.  50 years.  And I got a measly 10? Not even 10! I missed out on that by 2.5 months!  Here I was at not even 30, and in a grief class with a bunch of women old enough to be my grandma.

Today we had lunch at Liz’s house, and it was one of the most fun days I’ve had in a long time.  Because I was the youngest, and strongest, I was asked to open the wine.  Yes, we drank wine at 1PM in the afternoon.  And it was good.  Well, Liz doesn’t know how to keep wine, and they were standing upright in her pantry for who knows how long.  I was attempting to open a bottle of red with a broken corkscrew, and my assistant was the lovely Pat.

Unfortunately, the corks were dried out and rotten.  Do you know how hard it is to open a bottle of wine with a cork that hasn’t been kept moist?  I swear I must have tugged and twisted and pulled at the cork for 5 minutes (with a corkscrew too!), until it finally broke in half, pieces all over Liz’s counter.  I asked Liz if she had any bamboo skewers so I could maybe jab the left over cork, and pull it out.  And all she had were chopsticks.

So Pat, with her fabulous idea, poked the chopstick down into the neck of the bottle so hard that a fountain of red wine shot up and covered her, the counter, and the floor.  She was covered in it, and I could not stop laughing.  Liz and I were howling with laughter as we cleaned up the mess, and poor Pat had to spend the rest of the afternoon covered in red spots from where the wine splashed her.

While we were eating our lunch, the topic of tattoos came up, and I mentioned I got a tattoo last month when I was in San Diego.  Liz, who was sitting next to me, asked me to see it, so I jumped up out of my chair and started to lift up my pant legs.  All the other ladies stopped dead in their tracks, and looked at me with shocked expressions.  I showed them my tattoo, and they all loved it actually, but the conversation that ensued after that was even better.  Everyone was talking about gravity, and the effect it would have on tattoos.  My favorite comment was by Liz (or was it Nellie?),  who mentioned that if you got a tramp stamp, it would end up at the top of your legs after your ass was gone and you were old!  Bettina, who is not a widow, but lost her mother, was laughing so hard she could barely breathe!

I love these ladies, and I am so glad they have come into my life.

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