A hot May afternoon on a town square, by the looks of it not far from the Mediterranean coast. Four local jubilados have occupied their favourite bench, an unlit cigar hanging from their mouth, looking around them, contemplating a game of petanca perhaps? Newcomers stand in front of them, arms crossed, legs spread for better balance. Conversation seems earnest, a few laughs, a slap on the shoulder, the incidental raised eyebrow. Let the microphone zoom in.
It’s the elbows that give them away. You see a woman walking by and she is dressed like a young girl, high on her heels, tits and ass neatly packed, proudly showing herself off, and you start wondering is she still in her thirties or is fifty knocking already and you really can’t tell, I mean they all look so spectacular our women today, but when she passes you and you have given her behind a good look, you will inevitably notice the old goose skin hanging loose like two empty leather bags. Nothing to be done there, the gods have given them the tools to remain attractive well past the expiration date, but as to remind them of their mortality they have put these stigmata at the back of their arms. They sometimes come at very young age. There’s a mother with her toddler and the love in her eyes tells you she must be a first timer and you guess she can’t be much over thirty even when women are postponing motherhood as much as nature allows them, making money and pretending to be desirable little birds, it’s only a game of course, playing a joke on us blokes who would love to have it off with a fresh fig if you allow me, but we’re not running anymore so it’s merely the eyes that get feasted, and then you see the bags because she hasn’t exactly been on a spoiled brad’s trip, and I always smile that little reassuring grin, knowing we all are so much older than we look like.
Isn’t that wonderful? When I was a youth I always believed you had to pick them early, don’t let them ripe on the tree because next time you pass they will be gone, I mean that’s what we were instructed by the earlier generations, never to waste a chance because life has only so few in store, but when I’m getting older and I dare say not many here have been around longer than I, the beauty of this place that we call our home is growing by the day. I’ve come to fancy them all you know, the big and the small, the pretty faces and the more than a hand full, the really young and the seemingly young, the rich and the poor, the stylish and the foolishly dressed, there’s grace in every decision I believe, we’re all part of nature’s plan, so when Earth puts up her Sunday face it must be for a reason, maybe it’s her time to butterfly, a short lived glorious finale before it’s all over perhaps.
You’re out of line there, old buddy, it’s just the eye of the beholder. You can’t get yourself to unliking your old schoolground queens and all who came after them by nature’s law are even prettier, so you end up admiring the whole funny scene, lusting if you’re smart and aching when you can’t get to grips with life. We’ve become the dirty old geesers we always were destined to be. But I must admit there is an aspect of grace in that. All of us are growing older, I mean the average age is rising, so many retired and so few young hands these days, so we think we’re looking better all the time. If you would ask a kid they’d say it’s a bunch of rags, a badly lit sideshow where they are the only vistors and since they are so few it feels like they have paid admittance only to be the spectacle themselves. I know because I have a grandson who tells me this and I tell the youth not to worry, there’ll be plenty of time to watch.
You are right, we are rapidly becoming a gang of stoned out hippies smiling at a heap of rubbish, but there is something else about it too and that is called fertility. When our women can’t score on the babyfront because they don’t want to yet or our likes are having trouble keeping their milk fresh, they say the old sperm is in really bad shape nowadays, I’d say they have to maintain the looks a little longer and I agree on the rule of nature, she keeps her daughters in fine shape until they’ve been knocked up. And that’s only fair, from a survival point of view speaking.
So it’s us who started this thing when we decided it would be madness to keep having these large families and after three or four kids we told the old lady quits, I am not going to break my back over more like I saw my father doing, believing those faggots from the pulpit who kept repeating what mommy dear had whispered in their ear when they were little boys. And our sons took it further, one or two is all they will admit to, you say it’s the quality but I believe it’s just laziness, too much football on tv these days, anyway we forced our better halves into tuning themselves up for us. But I don’t feel sorry for the chirpers, they seem to be having a lot of fun sticking their feathers out.
I don’t know what you are talking about, natural causes for increased beauty and all, it’s pure speculation to me, I’d say we want our women to look good because we hang on to dear life and we might as well enjoy our days so yes, it’s in our eyes, but we are only fooling ourselves.
Of course we are, my friend. That is the whole point of the matter. All the time we tell ourselves we like what we’re seeing. It’s so easy to get bored with life, everyday is the same old routine, nothing happening really and better so, would you want another war or a new bunch of freaks forbidding us to enjoy our days here, we’re just passing the time and so we have no choice but to think we like the place. You may call that foolish, I think it’s pretty smart.
Which brings me back to my point, saying when the old outnumber the young, although in reality we are getting uglier on average, we believe we are surrounded by beauty.
Indeed, although I must correct you slightly, it is us who are surrounding beauty. Comes the day when we all gather round the last young bird, perhaps not even that young anymore, cheering her, come on babe, keep the looks, make us happy, we’re like gods, no point in hanging on, we’ve done our plight but hey we can’t come to say goodbye so we stick around and we need you to give us the reason. If the young would want to get rid of us old farts and I couldn’t blame them for wanting to, they’d better turn up as unlikeable as they can, looking like us I mean, but they never will because they crave to be different, thinking they won’t ever get as ugly as we are and thus giving us every reason to stay.
Well then, seems to me we all agree, the older we get the better we like it here. I wouldn’t be surprised if we could do without the young, simply admiring those leather bags because in the end all we desire is to admire.
I’d love to drink to that if the doctor still allowed it.
Now there’s a whole different topic.
