We went to the SIL’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. She doesn’t live far so it’s not like it was a major undertaking or anything and I like her and the rest of The Husband’s family so I was happy to go. Plus, I didn’t have to cook.
The SIL lives in an area of the county that’s largely populated by oldsters. Sort of a “retirement” community...a Habitat for the Elderly if you will. Many, many blue headed drivers bustling to and from the Post Office where they pick up their all important junk mail then rush to the grocery store to get canned soup and stool softeners. There’s a routine and it’s the routine that matters. The routine must be followed. The Husband is big on routines. I’m still on the fence trying desperately to lean away from the dreaded “routine” lifestyle. I may be fighting a losing battle but I keep trying.
The drive was uneventful thanks to Xanax and alcohol. The Husband wanted to drive and his son, the BBS (Brother of the Bad Seed), rode up with us. Hence the need for Xanax...not the BBS, simply the fact that The Husband was driving. The Husband fits right in with all the other blue head drivers in the SIL’s landscape. He’s a total booberdoober who thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to drive at least five miles per hour under the speed limit at all times regardless of the fact that he’s holding up traffic for miles. It makes me crazy. I complain about this on a regular basis. Just for the record...The Husband hates my driving too. He says I drive too fast. One time he told me he hates it when I drive his precious Homobile because he ends up “hating my guts”...those were his exact words...I just laughed....and just for the record, I didn’t take any Xanax before we left and I only drank after we got to the SIL’s house...but I should have.
After about an hour of white knuckled passengeritis on my part we got to the SIL’s house. She loves, loves, loves entertaining...and I have to admit she’s really good at it. She’s the Martha Stewart in the Habitat for the Elderly and she shines. She’s kind of a youngster in the land of oldsters...she’s in her early sixties.
The group for dinner was mostly family but there were some of the SIL’s friends and neighbors too. It was a bunch of old people...the youngest person was the BBS and he’s in his mid thirties. We ended up socializing for about an hour before the dinner was actually ready. I had a couple glasses of wine and chatted with some of the other ol’ wimmen. Most of the men gathered together and talked about “man stuff”...most of the wimmen gathered together and made fun of the men talking about “man stuff”. It’s always the same thing.
Then dinner was served. I ended up sitting at a table of ol’ wimmen and sadly, I fit right in. It was fun, we laughed, and talked, and laughed. Then one of the ol’ wimmen, a friend of the SIL, sitting next to me farted. She just sat there and let one rip...and acted like it didn’t happen. The expression on her face didn’t change one bit. I didn’t know what to do. I looked around to see if anyone else heard it but everyone was acting like they didn’t hear anything. Were they just pretending they didn’t hear it? Was it possible that nobody but me heard it? Now, it wasn’t loud enough to rattle the walls or anything, but come on...I can’t be the only one who heard it. Fortunately there was no major stench involved because if everyone started smelling it and nobody heard it, they probably would have thought it was me.
Then just a few minutes later, one of the family members sitting to my right...who shall remain nameless...farted. WTF??? Again, no change of facial expression. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was being punked. Is this what happens when you get really old? Do you just fart uncontrollably? Do you just get so hard of hearing that you think if you can’t hear it nobody else can? That if you don’t let your facial expression change people will think they didn’t really hear what they thought they heard?
While all this is happening I’m dying inside wanting to laugh and the first farter gets up and walks to the counter to get something and when she’s about three steps away...tiny steps mind you...she farts again. WTF???? And nobody acknowledges it. Nobody looks at each other in surprise, wanting to laugh...and believe me, I’m lookin’ for at least one face who’s heard the same stuff as me...and nobody’s acting like they heard a thing...nada...nowhere...
Now I’m wondering...do you just reach a certain age where you can’t control your sphincter muscles enough to prevent gas from slipping out at inopportune moments? Or, and this is what I’m hoping for, do you just get to a point where you don’t care. Can it be possible that I’m going to reach an age where I can just fart freely no matter where I am instead of doubling over in pain because I’m holding in copious amounts of gas?
For the life of me I can’t imagine getting together with the Old Chix...and having one of us just raise a cheek off the chair to let one rip...and nobody acknowledging it. No matter how old we get I can’t imagine that they all wouldn’t bust up laughing at the offending farter.
I know I shouldn’t worry about stuff like this, but I can’t help it...it's the stoopidist thing.