Oh, Lordy! It is Rico’s birthday and all the man wants is to go on a date! I think it’s a great idea. I offered to pay, it was the least I could do. I mean a man wants a date for his birthday, I’m all for it. I’ll pay for him to go out with someone else. I appreciate him keeping me in the loop, and being considerate enough to not make me squeeze into dress clothes. Hope they enjoy themselves and he can tell me all about it when he gets back. I’ll be on the bed in my pj pants, hair up, eating popcorn and chillin’. I’m absolutely good with this. Pick somewhere nice. I insist!
Then he explained he wanted a date… with me - ugh! Somewhere nice… damnit! He made reservations… well, now it’s an extra point dirty word!
And this is how I found myself shaving my legs on a Friday muttering under my breath about how I was NOT wearing a thong. I don’t care whose birthday it is, this butt is not walking around in heels with floss in my crack. I’m past all that. I’ve earned immunity, refer back to your memory bank if you need that image in your head, because the reality of it doesn’t hit the same these days. Shaved the winter growth off my legs, got the pits smooth.
I don’t know how I got here, not that his birthday is about me, but it kinda is, when Rico says, “Sweet Baby, I can’t wait to go have dinner and see you dressed up!” Hmmm, same? Can’t wait.
Surely, I’m not the only middle-aged woman who dreads getting dressed up and going out. And I don’t know when this transpired. I used to love a cute dress, a matching bra and panty set, grab me some heels or boots and man, I would flirt with the best of ‘em. Nowadays, my clothes reject me. We have no connection, the love we felt at the beginning is lost. Disillusion has set in, I feel they would be better off somewhere where they will be appreciated. I'd rather go around naked than have them touch me again. I need sweats and Tshirts, cotton panties and a bra with no underwire. If my smile and sparkling personality doesn’t reel you in, then them full coverage cotton panties with the daisies on them are not going to impress you.
And that’s how I ended up in Fort Worth in a dress and cowboy boots, pretending I had cute panties under my biking shorts — yes, biking shorts, because otherwise I’m gonna get chaff from the chub rub. Eating a meal that was way too good for my palate, trying to keep my eyelashes from unhinging at the corners, while I tried to make small talk and look flirty and at ease.
It was easier before my body went south… and east and west … basically went from a single wide to a double wide on some acreage. I use to let short hemlines and cleavage showing outfits do the work for me. Now I’m relying on my sparkling personality, and we all know how my face acts up and my mouth doesn’t have a shut-off switch.
I couldn’t wait to get home, strip down and wash my face. Before he could ask what was for dessert I had my pjs on and was in the bed. Both of us laying there looking relieved to be home and wishing we were slightly younger.
And before all of you think Rico’s birthday was a bust, I want all of you to know I let that man eat cake in my bed and talk about fishing, and that right there is all it took to bring me to sex kitten status.
Happy Birthday, Big Boy! Tell me again how big that fish was!
Delilah McMasters is a local resident and the mother of six. Reach her at BlessYourHeart76063@gmail.com.
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