As the summer trudges on refusing to loosen its grip on the city’s sidewalks, pavements or pedestrians, most have broken at least a few if not all of their New Year’s resolutions by now. I, on the other hand, have just begun thinking about mine. I admit and would agree with you that the deadline for this has come and gone and would not been easily missed given that the rest of the television-watching country openly celebrates the passing with Ryan Seacrest and his glittery descending ball.
Although I am contentedly ostracized here in the Midwest, even I could nearly hear the throngs of people huddled on top of each other urging Ryan’s giant ball to drop inch by inch screaming, initially in delight, but dissipating quickly once it reached its intended destination: the dirty streets of Times Square.
On a side note, Dick Clark’s ball dropped at the same time, but had far less appeal given that most of us don’t necessarily want to see Dick’s old and lackluster ball drop anymore. Albeit, he is a legend, I personally think it perverse and slightly creepy to watch as Dick attempts to comb his hair over ears which have for years now been lifted and placed squarely at the top of his head.
Dick is not unlike many of the women I see while walking through the mall. They skillfully dart from behind dark corners on the second level near Victoria’s Secret drinking their diet colas wearing velour track suits that expose their midriff and c-section scars. They usually have bright white hair extensions and I try not to look them directly in the eye as I pass them on my way into Barnes and Noble Bookstores. I have heard that this can be taken as a sign of aggression towards them and I have to confess that they frighten me a little. From the safety of the food court and the masses that surround me, I am free to study the phenomena that have become these women…these cougars.
They chew on leaves of lettuce ever mindful of their figures which for some have not yet healed from a recent procedure and I suddenly imagine a sweltering Mexican doctor’s office where hordes of them are prodded in like cattle to receive another lift, tuck or even parts re-assignment. I read once (or possibly made-up this fact between the first and five cocktails and now have simply convinced myself that I read it in some scholarly source such as People or InTouch Weekly), that the fat from your butt is often re-assimilated quite easily into the most bizarre of places.
I personally can’t imagine having the extraneous fat sucked from my left buttock and pumped into, say, my lips. Which now brings me to wonder, since I read that this procedure is so incredibly common, if I have indeed kissed someone’s ass?
I must have been starring too long, which I tend to do, and I inadvertently made eye contact with presumably, the head cougar. As she gazed at me, her tanned leathery skin, devoid of any natural moisture but glistening with a mixture of Oil of Olay and hundred dollar lotion. I noticed how her papery thin face was pulled so tight that she could almost blink her lips. She parted them however, and I expected her to eat me, but she just smiled and her voice was velvet, soft and sincere as she said “hello.”
This brings me to my resolution, although delayed, it is long overdue.
We are all no different from Dick Clark. If we are lucky, our ball too, will get old and all but a few loyal followers will want to watch it drop.
My delayed resolution contradicts the cliché we are told as children, but my friends and loyal readers; I resolve never to grow old gracefully. I too, will party through the New Year with Dick and the rest of my fellow cougars hell bent on preserving my flesh…along with child hood wonderment. So bring on the New Year…what’s left of it anyway because the world and the latest plastic surgeries will never cease to amaze me and I resolve never to conform to the pressure to grow up.
No comments:
Post a Comment