As always happens in a college town around the middle of May the beginning of tank top season arrives. The sweet young things seem to come out of the woodwork wearing short shorts, tank tops, and 4-inch sandles.
I watch them stroll by and reminisce about participating in the sport not all that long ago. Well, maybe it was longer than it seems. Today our tank tops are a tad contrived and our swimming attire is screen printed in place.
Nevertheless I decided to make peace with my inner crone who was trying to take over my life and have her way with me.
Just yesterday Marie and I were chatting about some poor elderly woman. Ooops. If you want to get technical, we could be defined as “elderly”. We laughed at the ridiculous thought, but both of us grew a little introspective.
I rotated my wrist to glance at my Fitbit to see if I was close to my 10,000 required steps. In the process i notices the skin on my elbow had taken on a crepe paper appearance. What was this!!!
Maybe tt was time to learn to love our inner chrone and get her motivated to redefine the third act of life. After all we were the boomers who burned our bras in the 60s and began the women’s lib movement. Well, we watched the California girls do it. But hey, maybe it’s not to late to get in the game.
Marie and I began making plans to go to the cabin in the woods to celebrate the seventh decade of our lives. We would get our high school gang and do some bra burning and Crone Liberating – 21st century style. We may make headlines yet.
Frankly, trying to be pretty young things was exhausting. Now we have earned the permission to come just as we are.