All She Wants To Do Is Have Some Fun

“They’ve got singles’ bars, so why not seniors’ bars? A little Glenn Miller, some dancing and flirting? Know what I mean?”

My Saturday night caller who has identified herself as a reader in Nebraska, continues. “Just because I’m old enough to draw Social Security doesn’t mean I’m too old to want to draw some attention. I want to get all dressed up and have SOMEWHERE to go for a change.”

Before I can do much more than nod silent agreement, she races on.

“It’s folks in our age group who have all the money to spend and we’re pretty low risk. We dress like ladies and gentlemen and we don’t get drunk, do drugs or start fights. But I’m damned if I want to play Bingo at some senior center and call that FUN!”

Now I’m chuckling right along with my caller as she lists her gripes and spells out her intended rebellion.

“When we were young we were too poor and too frantic to know how to enjoy ourselves. We worried about everything from curfews to sex to zits. Now, when we’re at an age where we’re laid back and secure enough to get out and live a little and do it right, where is there for us to go?”

“Beats me,” I confess. “My social life isn’t much zippier. I usually rent a movie and fight with my cats for control of the popcorn.”

“See what I mean?” she says. “What a waste. Women like us should be in demand but nobody knows we’re here.” Already, I like this lady a lot.

“There’s got to be life between ‘seasoned’ and ‘senile’,” she mutters.

I’m thinking hard but nothing more profound than, “Why didn’t I think of that?” comes to mind.

“I’m not a bar-hopper. Never have been,” she says, “but there ought to be nice places where people our age can hang out without some twerp ordering the EMS to stand by.”

This lady cracks me up.

“I’m tired of a social life that includes nothing racier than Saturday night baby-sitting with my grandchildren or a bus tour of outlet stores. I want to go DANCING!” she repeats, vigorously.

“My husband has been gone nine years now,” she confides.

Just as I clear my throat to offer condolences she adds, “Not dead, just gone. He left with his secretary, the bimbo-ette.”

“Young, huh?” I ask.

“Yeah, but she’ll age fast living with the ‘Clunk’!”

Apparently that’s another story and she doesn’t want to talk about it.

“I did have a date a couple of months ago and it was OK, but my kids acted awful. They checked up on me just like I had a curfew. They knew what time I got home and gave me the third-degree the next morning in church. In CHURCH!” she repeats with emphasis on i-n-d-i-g-n-a-n-t.

“What I really hate,” she says, “is the feeling that just about the time I’m finally capable of living it up a little and maybe getting it right, society is telling me it’s time to quit.

“Well, I’m not about to quit but I’m not going to settle for any of these ‘geriatric delights’ dreamed up by a bunch of fuzzy-headed social workers.

“I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do or where, but it’s time for a revolution. I’ve put my kids on notice: No more Saturday night babysitting.”

This is a lady on a roll. I ask if I can write about her. She says, “Sure, but don’t use my name.”

Okay, Nebraska, you’re on notice. The revolution is under way.

xxxx