Destination Dread

by tess

For nearly a decade, people have failed to see why Gretchen and I are friends. After all, we are far more different than we are alike. And our differences are decidedly more substantial (political, philosophical, geographical, physical, professional) than our similarities (sometimes-blonde Catholic school graduates). But we’ve always been bound by one simple fact: we both think we’re hysterical. And the more others refuse to submit to our mutual hilarity, the more convinced we become of our collective side-splitting wit.

When obsessed by the dramatic minutiae, the sturm und drang that consumes my soul in the darkness, I shared with Gretchen my greatest fear: ending up embittered, old, and alone being predated upon by my cats. And with a quick “Oh my God, me too!!!!!” she reassured me that a future substituting cats for men is common among the brightest, funniest women of our time: namely, us. Together we dreamed of knitting pretty sweaters from cat furballs. We rhapsodized about waterproof undergarments enabling us to watch entire episodes of General Hospital without having to leave our barfoloungers. We made peace with the economy rejoicing at the pleasure of sharing Whiskas with our pets. When confronted with pidgeon-flavored Purina, make squab paté!

Thus released from wallowing in my own anxious despair, I inventoried the many ways in which I am not (yet!) my own hellish apocalyptic vision. It was then I realized: I’ve already become the crotchety old woman whom I fear. I know this because I:

* Think pictures of my contemporaries look like old people
* Don’t go anywhere without a stash of Tums, Beano, ExLax, and Imodium AD
* Refer to everyone under 30 as “damn kids”
* Scratch odd, hardened bits of skin until they bleed
* Engage in deeper conversations with my Gastroenterologist than with my shrink
* Sing along to muzak at the grocery store
* Choose foods based not on how big they’ll make my butt, but on how they’ll affect my regularity
* Take it personally when cars pass me and wonder aloud where exactly they need to be going in such a damn hurry
* Don’t even know if we get MTV stations
* Have observed that everyone my age carries pictures of their grand-children
* Choose shoes based on whether or not I have to bend over to put them on rather than how cute they are
* Don’t get my hair re-blonded anymore, having embraced the inevitability of gray
* Realize that I frequently talk aloud to myself about how crazy everyone around me is
* Have the time and desire to share my comments with hotlines and websites
* Go to the store during the day to avoid the after-work crazies who don’t seem to realize that it takes time to select the right ice cream

So what if I’m a crotchety old woman? So what if I’ll be eaten by my cats? I guess it’s better than being mown down by a smelly, axe-wielding, roller blade-wearing midget wearing an Elmo costume. Wait! Wonder if Gretchen’s afraid of that, too?!