MY BIRTHDAY PRESENT TO ME

By Patty Clark

I was one of those kids who couldn’t wait to grow up. Now, at seventy-three, I’m hanging on for dear life. I should be writing a book What to expect umpteen years after expecting. I expect my glasses to be everywhere but my face. I expect to say “I’m fine” when clearly, I’m not fine, but fine enough. Though my furniture no longer bares scars, SpaghettiOs aren’t in my heater vents, and I no longer require approval, logic, or breathable fabrics. I made a mindful, evolutionary leap, as evidenced when I bought leather pants.

It wasn’t intentional. I set out with a clear mission to buy socks and sidetracked to the clearance rack when I was confronted with the slick britches. The cost was right, giving me discounted courage to schmooze with them, telling myself that they scream ‘backstage pass,’ when my calendar screams ‘car wash,’ ‘clean cobwebs,’ and ‘orthopedic check-up.’ I made the subsequent shift from “Should I’ to “Damn right I should,” then practiced several excuses into needing them. Were they practical? Irrelevant. Am I meant to perform one-person fashion struts at the grocery store? Why, yes I am. Will I give off that bowchickawowow vibe? With luck. The thought did cross my mind that I’d appear sleazy to some people who might form the opinion that I look ridiculous. Because in their minds, there’s a strict pant code for aging, printed somewhere between the Bible and Metamucil bottle. I had to do a risk assessment and evaluate whether I would survive sneezing, and neighborhood gossip. Did they look sleazy to me? Absolutely not. I normally take public opinion under advisement, where I promptly ignore it and release gloom back into the wild where it belongs. Besides, scandal requires real ambition, and I’m not that ambitious. My other tiny squeak of concern was about the slacks being too small, causing another internal debate. Will I be able to get them on? Leather stretches. I’ll just do minimal squatting and no sudden lunges. Lastly, will I be able to breathe in them? Technically, it’ll be more like respiratory awareness than actual oxygen exchange. I’ll be running on confidence, not air. All thoughts I had while beelining to the dressing room before I changed my mind.

Then came the insertion process with zipping. Metal fought me with every tug. A chair was involved. Then the wall. Once on, I worried about permanent wedging. But I felt hipper. Taller. Like I had conquered Everest. I now had a clear level of commitment to the shiny legwear that projected spunk, rebellion, and a vague implication that I might be able to order whiskey without flinching. They were certainly karaoke compatible. And I’d have grandkid approval. I was confronted with the undeniable closer, if not now, when? Leather pants don’t belong in the “someday” category. Plus, never underestimate a determined dame in synthetics. More accurately, pleather - plastic polymers, the lovechild of leather dreams and budget reality. I left the dressing room mirror and faced the larger one stationed out in the open. I posed, did a slight catwalk, and was now faced with staring spectators. Hoping for high morale, I asked the courtroom, “All in favor of them, say aye.” I heard resounding verdicts: “Totally!!” “You go girl!” “Just don’t wear them to church.”

Needless to say, I left the store feeling like a pleather purchased demi-goddess. Fabulous, and free to provoke either gasps of admiration or envy. Following the advice not to wear them to church, I hold prayerful leather appreciation Sundays at home. God doesn’t care where I pray. Nor does He care if I prance around in pleather. I had a one-on-one with the Big Guy. “If I should keep them, show me sunshine. If not, show me rain and I’ll return them.” I got divine approval. It’s been three hours and I haven’t even seen a sprinkle. I began musing that I’ll go bolder and buy stilettos. Then the leather pants would really make sense. Since I don’t do anything without pious consent, I asked our Architect of Reality for His thoughts. Knowing I’d be walking a tightrope of shoe fashion and physics, He answered, “Go ahead. But I gave you a prayer book for a reason.”

Who knows what I’ll do at seventy-four.