break. Then each morning I run the obstacle course, navigating with one eye closed down the stairs to the
coffee pot without tripping over the shoes, toys and newspapers. I also run the no-matter-what-time-you-get-them-up-they-piddle-around relay, handing off backpacks and lunch boxes to belligerent, sleep-walking children.
There are others, of course, but I'm sure you get the picture. But even if my exercise routine does leave something to be desired, I think I look pretty darned good for my age. In fact I had this very discussion with
some friends recently and we came to the conclusion that we look a whole lot better than most of the people we know. Confidentially, though, they're starting to look a wee bit droopy, while I'm still hanging in there
like a hair in a biscuit. My mirror says I'm holding up quite well. That's because I watch myself age day-to-day. And the change isn't so obvious -- at least to me. But the people who haven't seen me since "I've
Got You, Babe" was on the charts might have a slightly different opinion.And this worries me.
Next year I'm going to my high school reunion and I'd like for everyone to take a look and say, "You haven't
changed a bit." No, I take that back. What I really want is for them to take a look and say, "My God! You are absolutely gorgeous! You have to be the most beautiful, successful, stunning woman ever to have
received a diploma from Nile C. Kinneck High School!"
But what they're really going to say is, "Do I know you? Wait, let's see. Carole Moore, Carole Moore, hmmmm." (Brows knit in deep thought as they
reach back 30 years for some clue as to who I am.)"Let me help you," I'll say sweetly. "I was the one all the girls envied, looked up to and wanted to be like."
"No, I remember her. That was
Sue Nathan." "Yeah, well, I was the beautiful one." "No, I knew her, too. That was Cheryl Brown." "Yeah, well I was smart....""Joy Fukomoto." "Popular...."
"Grace Foster."
Just forget the whole thing. Maybe I'll call Cher and borrow her personal trainer for a few weeks. Ok, ok. A few months...all right, years. I DON'T HAVE YEARS! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND I'VE TO
LOOK LIKE I'M 20 BY THE SUMMER ? I HAVE TO UNDO decades YEARS OF MOON PIES, WIN A PULITZER PRIZE, BE ELECTED TO CONGRESS, CURE CANCER AND GET MY STOMACH FLAT AS A FRISBEE AND DO IT ALL IN ONLY 18 SHORT MONTHS?
I
think I'm starting to hyperventilate. I need to quit working on this column and get started. Let's see, what'll I do first? Think I'll have a couple of Oreos and big glass of milk while I carefully consider my options.
Then again, there's always the hope they'll all be too senile to remember who they went to high school with in the first place. Maybe I can even get away with stretching the truth a bit.
Anybody know where I can find
a long black wig and a couple of halter tops?
