Lynn is one of my dearest friends. We’ve known each other for at least 40 years and we are regularly in touch. She knows the people in my world; I know the people in her world, including her new husband, David. In fact, I was the one of the first of her friends to meet David. In the three years they dated, we talked frequently about David. For several months, my refrigerator door featured a party invitation celebrating Lynn and David. I am well aware that Lynn’s husband’s name is David.
And Your Name Would Be?
But last week, someone innocently asked me, “What’s Lynn’s husband’s name?” and I just stared at him. I had no idea. He might as well have asked me to prove some obscure mathematical hypothesis. The name of Lynn’s husband had simply evaporated, and I just sat there, blinking.
Desperate, I called Lynn and asked, “What the heck is your husband’s name?” She was laughing too hard to be offended.
I am lucky –Lynn is one of several devoted childhood friends with whom I will grow old (a process which has, apparently, already started). For those of you who have seen I Will Be Good, you may remember Jan, Jan, Heddy, Lynn, Lee, Saf and Alvie. I have an equally faithful group of college friends who are at the ready as well. In the close friend department, my blessings abound.
Watching the Trailer, Waiting for the Movie
This is good news as I watch my mother, now 81, and her octogenarian pals experience old age. While we in our 50s deal with the occasional memory loss, reading glasses, and minor surgery to fix worn-out parts, many of Mama’s buddies endure Alzheimer’s, chronic pain, and what seems like the weekly death of a close friend.
But Mama and her friends are not allowing their older age to keep them from not only doing good, but also having a good time. Mama recently hosted a birthday party for a close friend who was turning 84. She invited three other 80ish friends to celebrate. All of them volunteer at the local hospital (and have done so for years) with a younger couple – also invited to the party — who are in their 50s and ride motorcycles. Big motorcycles. I think they call them “hogs.”
Damned if Mama and her friends didn’t hop on the back of the motorcycles and cruise the streets of Tampa. I wouldn’t exactly call them biker chicks, but I’m sure the neighbors were impressed.
I hope to face old age with the same spirit as Mama and her friends. In the meantime, I’m reviewing the names of my friends and their husbands, just in case.