injaynesworld it's "An Afternoon To Remember..."

The warm kiss of the sun tickles my nose and I sneeze, lose my balance and tumble backwards into a painfully-handsome man holding a glass of our host’s finest Cabernet.  Time slows to a hideous crawl as I watch the wine rise up in a great wave and drench the front of his silk, cream-colored jacket in splotches of indelible red.  All eyes turn accusingly in my direction.  Frozen in place, I can feel my cheeks on fire.  He gently touches my chin, lifts my eyes to meet his and smiles.

“This will be a good story to tell our children.”

From the Studio 30 prompt "kiss of the sun."

injaynesworld it's "Party Time..."

Birthdays were always a big deal in my family.  Party hats for all, including the dogs.  I can’t remember a year when I haven’t been excited about an approaching birthday, except for my 30^th.  Of the generation whose mantra was “Never trust anyone over 30,” when my time arrived to cross that threshold, I took to my bed with a bottle of tequila. 

I look back at that silly girl now and want to tear off the covers, tell her to get her ass up and seize the day because they truly are numbered.  I’d assure her that, while the 30s will continue to be a struggle to find herself, the 40s will totally rock.  The 50s will bring some difficult lessons, but she will become like quicksilver in her ability to adapt, and nothing will be able to hold her down for long.  Sixty will come in like a lion and, long before Katy Perry ever thought of it, she will hear herself roar. 

She would probably respond, “Who are you, old lady?”  And “Get the hell out of my bedroom.”  But I will have at least tried. 

I don’t understand those who say they hate birthdays.   It was long my custom to announce on April 1^st that there were only 20 more shopping days until mine.   What’s better than being surrounded by friends with booze, gifts and cake?   Sure, there is that getting older thing.  Body parts begin migrating to places heretofore unoccupied.   Crone hands make an appearance.  And a “lube job” takes on a whole new meaning.   But if those are the worst things happening, all the more reason to celebrate.

There are several milestone birthdays:  16, the driver’s license birthday; 18, the right-to-vote birthday; 21, the right-to-get-legally shitfaced birthday.  Then that long road until 62, the-Social-Security Birthday.  This year I celebrate the Medicare birthday.  The last one with tangible perks.

Woo-hoo!  

Whenever I’m tempted to bitch about getting older, I think of those whose lives are cut short – who never get to realize their full potential – and I shut my mouth.  I suspect that with age, we aren’t lamenting the loss of our youth, but rather the loss of our future.  It’s hard to watch the years fall away with seemingly ever-increasing speed.  Yes.  What’s up with that Neil deGrasse Tyson?  

I like it here.  I want to stay.  Another 30 years or as long as I can still sit a horse would be good.  I’m enjoying the most creative period of my life with lots still left to learn and accomplish.  This is not a time to rest on laurels.  The Universe will think you’re done.   Seventy.   Eighty.   Bring ‘em on.  And ninety?  That’s going to be awesome.

I’m booking the restaurant now.   

injaynesworld "See No Evil..."

I would sit on the floor in my pajamas, my nose only inches from the TV screen.  My mother said I would ruin my eyes, but it was the sound that drew me close. “I love Lucy” was my favorite.  The continuous laughter at the Ricardos’ antics held me in its comforting embrace.  I didn’t know that the audience was not real.  That what I was hearing was “canned” laughter.  I only knew that it drowned out the angry voices of my parents, the crash of furniture when one of them would stumble and fall, or the shattering of a glass thrown by one at the other. 

My mother needn’t have worried about my eyes.  They were always closed.

This post is in response to the prompt “canned laughter,” at Studio-30 Plus.

injaynesworld it's "Forbidden Love..."

When I was but a mere child, my mother tried to instill in me what she believed to be the correct usage of the words like and love.  It would go something like this:

“A baby tears doll!  I love it!”

“We like toys, Jayne.  We love people.”

Or maybe this:

“I love chocolate cake, Mommy.”

“You like chocolate cake.  You love your family.”

On occasion, I could stump her:

“I love my puppy.”  

Once I entered adulthood and saw how casually the word “love” was tossed about, I understood her desire to teach me its value. To this day, I will check myself when tempted to use the word “love” in relation to an object, and I have to say I really do appreciate the difference. 

Imagine then my sense of self-recrimination when I recently found myself head-over-heels, madly-in-love with… a handbag.  Wrong.  So very, very wrong.  And yet I knew we were meant to be together from the moment I saw her. 

Lest you think me shallow, I assure you it wasn’t just a physical attraction.  Yes, her supple peach/rose, Italian leather thrills me at the touch.   The way she drapes herself across my shoulder, snuggling softly at my bosom causes my breath to quicken.  And her pedigree – well, let’s just say the lady is from a very good family.

However, it’s what she is on the inside that counts most and has captured my heart so completely.   Compartments.

I weep with joy just thinking about them:  One on each side and a zipper pocket in the middle.  And inside those?   More compartments.   To never again know the torment and frustration of having to dig for a ringing phone, a lipstick, checkbook, or keys.  You know what I mean, ladies.  

She has brought order and peace to my life:  On one side, a small writing tablet and pen, business cards, telephone, with room for a book should I wish to carry one.  On the other:  Cosmetics, comb, mirror and tissues.  And in the middle:  Wallet, checks, bank deposit books and keys.  Exactly as God intended.  Such generosity.  How can one not fall in love?

So, while my mother would surely never approve, I will say it now for the whole world to know.  If loving you is wrong, I don’t want to be right.  

This was written for this week’s Studio30+ prompt.