Thursday, April 26, 2012


First the back story. Always the back story. At my age, almost everything is back story. More fun looking back than forward, if you know what I mean. (If you don't know what I mean, just exit and go twitter what you had for breakfast and maybe someone will care. I won't.)

If you want to skip the back story, just scroll down to the #tag and read the part where I made a total and absolute fool of myself.  I'll understand. I just will never speak to you again. *sigh*

Back to the back story. Three of us were friends from nursing school. Old time nursing students with Florence Nightingale blue capes, white caps and starched uniforms. Oh, Lordy, how long ago was that?

Never mind. Don't ask. It's not relevant.

Anyway, we did the nursing school thing, took our boards, passed, (!) and moved on. The three of us married, took part in each other weddings,  (all the husbands liked to hunt and fish, bonus points!) had kids. We traveled through life stages together. Buying houses, raising kids, working, putting suddenly tall children through college, attending weddings, having grandchildren. Achieving the Great American Dream as we saw it.

And finally, retired, we're ready to travel. Wahoo!

#tag Our first trip together was a Hawaiian cruise. Packed our bags, flew to LA and off we went.  The crew kept us entertained during the sea time from the main land to the dream land. 9000 calories a day and activities. Oh, yes, the activities. Our guys watched films on fishing and volcanoes (yawn) but us gals took hula lessons. Got that? Hula lessons. The waving arm motions, the waving hip motions, knees bent, straightened, broad smiles, face the audience, turn, now back is to the audience. Us broads dug it. One of the women in this group obviously had some elderly issues. Her vacant smile, the halting, shuffling gait, the inability to do the arm and hip motion things were a give-away. Her husband was loving and attentive and propelled her, his arm on her elbow, through the dining room, fixed her plate, cut her meat, tended to her. Lovingly, so lovingly. He brought her to every scheduled hula lesson.

Okay. So the deal is on the return trip from dream land to LA, the last night at sea, the passengers are the evening entertainment. The hula group is scheduled to perform. We're up for the gig. (We may have been drinking. Oh, Lordy, how long ago was that? I dunno.)

Before we went on stage, I was in the ladies room, checking last minute for lipstick on my teeth, wearing the perfect dress for a hula performance. The skirt was "car wash style" meaning  it was cut in thin strips from knee to hip like a car wash swirling mop. Perfect. I followed the elderly lady from the bathroom to the stage and saw she had a long tail of toilet paper stuck to her shoe and snaking behind her. "Poor woman," I thought, "how embarrassing. I hope I am never so unaware."

We're on stage. Taped ukulele music playing. Choreography rules. And as I sway, arms moving, hips moving, broad smile, facing the audience, then turning, back to audience, I realize I had tucked most of the back of my car wash skirt into the waist band of my underwear. Hips swaying, my bottom in full view.


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