For some inexplicable reason, my aging rapidly accelerated the day I started collecting Social Security, and I found that impossible to accept. Sensing my anxiety, my wife Wanda insisted that we go down to St. Augustine and visit the Fountain of Youth. I drank gallons of their precious spring water and even bathed in it, all to no avail. After that huge disappointment, I became grouchy and difficult to live with, so much so that Wanda told me to get lost.
I kept sulking long after I moved into an efficiency apartment, but the proverbial light bulb eventually illuminated my cranium. I got together with my health care provider and quickly organized a plan of action for rebuilding me to look just as I did 30 years ago. No doubt about it, this was my one big chance to hit life’s reset button. I even discovered that the Affordable Care Act covered portions of my physical renovation strategy.
The first order of business was to get a decent hairpiece to hide my baldness. Then I went for blue contact lenses, the bifocal kind. Next came dental implants from Fly‑by‑Night Dentistry and a facial tune‑up from Frank’s Facelift, laughing gas from the former and painful needles from the latter. My torso makeover consisted of a brutal liposuction session, followed by application of an adhesive prosthetic for instant six‑pack abs. Then came the two butt implants that beefed up my sagging rear end.
All that bodywork came with a rainbow of pills to keep me physically energized, including the most gratifying element of my former Don Juan persona. The side effects from those pills are nothing I’d care to discuss here; it suffices to say that I had to get a rental van to transport cases of adult diapers to my apartment. Not to worry; I shook off all that misery and proceeded to start living life on the wild side.
Barhopping became my primary pastime, especially flirting with scores of cute waitresses. I favored redneck bars, including one that had a mechanical bull. There, I was able to establish an Amorous, albeit superficial, relationship with a giggly cocktail waitress who was about half my age. Based on my physical appearance at the time, Cyndi‑Beth seemed to be a perfect match for me. As we chatted, Cyndi‑Beth hinted that she’d love to have the pretty pickup truck that was the grand prize for the bar’s mechanical bull contest. My overinflated ego said, “You can do this, cowboy up!”
After having watched a few local chaps ride the bull with mixed results, I took my shot at winning that pickup truck for Cyndi‑Beth. Well, I did the best I could on the bucking bull, but things quickly spun out of control. First, my hairpiece fell to the floor; then one of my blue contacts popped out. The bull’s violent movement sent my cheap dental implants flying across the barroom and caused my fake six‑pack abs to start peeling away from my body. The coup de grace was a violent buck that sent me flying through the air, landing on my posterior. Both my butt implants burst, leaving little to hold up my designer blue jeans.
I heard plenty of chuckling as I hobbled out of the bar. Where to now? Naturally, the prodigal son parable flashed through my mind, although it would be my wife at the door. When I arrived at the house, I rang the doorbell with one hand and held up my jeans with the other. Wanda came to the door and gestured me inside. Before I walked in, I tore off the fake six‑pack abs and tossed the sticky gel slab into the bushes. I was very relieved to learn that Wanda finally empathized with my male menopause crisis. Despite my disheveled and dilapidated appearance, we kissed and made up.
Shortly thereafter, I dutifully pulled together the remnants of my diminishing physical attributes in an effort to look as good as possible in my waning years. Then I started sorting through all the medical bills for the cosmetic work I had done prior to my escapades in Fantasy Land. While doing that, one thought kept racing through my guilty mind: How can I make this up to my darling Wanda?
Wanda was truly surprised and pleased when I handed her the keys to a cute pickup truck I just bought for her. At her prompting, we occasionally use it to visit an urban cowboy bar for an evening of Texas two‑step dancing. Gosh, despite my advanced age, my wonderful wife and I probably could have been having this kind of fun all along. Who knew?
Liburdi’s books are available at online bookstores and on the Kindle Reader.