Being Vintage in the Age of Coronavirus

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I’ve procrastinated a long time before launching this blog, but now seems to be the perfect time.

I came to this conclusion yesterday, after I downed a glass of wine at 11 a.m. and spontaneously started yelling overly enthusiastic greetings out my front door at neighbors who have never met me as they walked their children and dogs on the other side of the street.  It was a desperate attempt to talk to a human being, any human being, face to face, albeit 125 feet away.

Most of them glanced my way then quickly slid their necks down inside their parkas and scurried down the sidewalk, as though I was “that” woman on the block. Hell, we all know who “that” woman on the block is. She’s the one who hoards egg cartons and dental floss and feeds her leftover vegetables to the millions of rabbits that have proliferated and taken over the neighborhood.

Yikes. That might be me.

Moving on. I’m in the designated age group most likely to die from the coronavirus. The one who might  be refused treatment because there’s not enough equipment to save everyone. The one the doctors will look at, raise one eyebrow and ask in a perplexed tone, “Seriously, you want to live?”

Sigh.

I do, actually.

This option of seniors throwing up their arms and saying, “Take me, take me!” really came to light after the lieutenant governor of Texas suggested grandparents would be willing to die to save the country’s economy during the coronavirus crisis. What the …

I definitely wasn’t consulted on this, nor were any of my friends. We’re going to need more specifics. Exactly whose wealth are we are dying for? Cause we know it ain’t ours. Do we have to flatline completely or can we just get seriously ill and make a comeback — ala Pet Cemetery — when the economy springs back to its feet?

Is this grandparental suicide pact limited only to the coronavirus? Or, is there a chance an earmark could be slipped into the Die Seniors Die Dammit Sen. Bill 666 and expanded to include indigestion, knee replacements and gout?

I don’t know, I’m torn. I’m a patriot, but I kind of want to live. I’ve got a new grandchild coming in October, for God’s sake, and I just ordered new laminate flooring for the utility room. It took months to decide on the color — not too light as to show all the dirt and not so dark that it looks like a prison cell. What I’m saying is that I’m looking forward to rocking my new grandson and to my new Creamy Oak Cappuccino flooring rocking my utility room.

It wouldn’t bother me as much if it wasn’t just old, white male politicians suggesting this harakiri crap. I don’t see any people of color or younger people suggesting we line up for cremation in order to bail out the big banks and stockholders. But then again, my black friends are my age and my kids might be timid about telling me to die, just die.

I’ll give it some thought and mull it over. In the meantime, I’m going to pour another glass of wine and yell out the front door at people I don’t know.