I have written a letter to myself to be read on my 80th
birthday…
Dear Enhancer (or liar or truth-stretcher or falsifier or
crazy…whatever you prefer),
Congratulations! I’m
very impressed that Thomas hasn’t strangled you yet.
By the way, if you look to your left is he sitting beside
you?
I hope he hasn’t died of a broken neck from all the head
shaking. There are many more years of
shaking to come.
Old people get to have all the fun.
They get to do and, mostly say, things that shock their
families. They have kept their thoughts
inside for so long that they finally say, “screw it, this is what I think”.
I can hardly wait.
I think my mom will be so happy she is long gone, because
the idea of me getting more open than I am now is probably terrifying for
her.
I’ll speak very loudly so you can hear me all the way up in
heaven. I wouldn’t want you to miss
anything good.
You’re welcome.
It reminds me of a poem…
“When I Am Old…by Jenny Joseph
When I am an old woman I shall wear
purple
With a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me,
And I shall spend my pension
on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals,
and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired,
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells,
And run my stick along the public railings,
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens,
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat,
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go,
Or only bread and pickle for a week,
And hoard pens and pencils and beer mats
and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry,
And pay our rent and not swear in the street,
And set a good example for the children.
We will have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me
are not too shocked and surprised,
When suddenly I am old
and start to wear purple!”
With a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me,
And I shall spend my pension
on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals,
and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired,
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells,
And run my stick along the public railings,
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens,
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat,
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go,
Or only bread and pickle for a week,
And hoard pens and pencils and beer mats
and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry,
And pay our rent and not swear in the street,
And set a good example for the children.
We will have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me
are not too shocked and surprised,
When suddenly I am old
and start to wear purple!”
Let me pop back to my letter. I got sidetracked…
I think my mom will be so happy she is long gone, because
the idea of me getting more open than I am now is probably terrifying.
Mom, I’ll speak loudly so you can hear me all the way up in
heaven. I wouldn’t want you to miss the
good stuff.
You’re welcome.
Enhancer, this is what I would like you to do…
Since you have driven everybody crazy with the speed that
you drive, I think now is the time to kick it up a notch.
I want you to speed.
I want you to push your foot down on the accelerator really, really
hard.
I want you to roll down the window and feel the wind blowing
through your hair or what’s left of it.
Again, push down hard on the accelerator.
If you do this then you will probably reach somewhere near
the actual speed limit.
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