I’ve only just returned from my weekend away so I might be brief today. Romeo may be the best thing I have done in a while. His exuberance coupled with originality provided a weekend that won’t soon be forgotten.
It also proved to be an endurance test for this less-than-freshly-minted dame. Heaven help me, I am absolutely spent. I apologize in advance for any crimes against grammar, punctuation or spelling but my arms barely move. I am not complaining, mind you, just a little… surprised.
Oh, I know what you are thinking, that perhaps the Widow is past her prime but that can’t really be it, can it? I mean, we are talking about, well, me. Things started off well enough; a little training needed, proper time given, deference assigned, respect for the tasks at hand; but then again, and again… and again. And when did beds become out of vogue? Goodness, I hadn’t been that mobile since the Blitz. It wasn’t so much a marathon for carnal dominance as a par course. I eventually resorted to finding snipe chases for Romeo to give me a moment’s peace.
So is the Veuve de Plume past her prime? Wasn’t I allowed a second chance at vitality when I woke up from a 90-year nap? I am, technically – on paper? – only 42 (43?) so I should be able to handle the weekend of a young man in his thirties, shouldn’t I? When do we pass our prime, exceed our expiration date, start eying the pasture into which we shall one day wander?
I question now if I shouldn’t have told Romeo to settle down and let me catch my breath; he was, after all, benefiting from all I had to offer. Why would I worry about my impression on him? With all his snazz and popular appeal, he has only recently come into prominence; I have been dazzling for decades. I don’t need to prove my merit; I’ve lived it. The honor is his for being allowed to enjoy it.
Certainly I have looked at magazines, the silver screen, television and every other form of media available to see what they tell me I should find beautiful, but I don’t. They try to tell you life is about the young, the beautiful, the unmarred. I saw an actress the other day – a beautiful, almond-eyed actress with gorgeous hair and a nice little figure traipse across the screen and the minute she became alive to me was the close-up on her face that exposed a small, half-moon scar to the left of her nose. That was interesting, that had a story I wanted to hear. I am tired of line-less, dimple-less, stain-less landscapes. I want to spend time with a person who has a history, has lived a life.
It matters not to me who voted you sexiest of anything if I find the real you ordinary. I don’t care if your sole objective in life was to be famous as long as you road the speed bumps getting there. Your neutrality is nothing more than a façade. Your true passion, what drives you, that which shaped you is what makes you interesting. I don’t issue an IQ test for you to cross the threshold of the Chateau but if you want to return, you will need to dazzle me more than just corporeally.
I have no intention of wandering into any pasture or retiring to turbans and rapping my cane to command attention. I intend to stay in the game while I am able, take the bench when needed and when it is time for me to retire my more aggressive involvement, I will sit back and learn the next generation’s stories as all stories are interesting and all are equal.
My point is, darlings, life is not in the glossy cover photo but the editorial attached to it.