By W. G. Warren.
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Women say I am the object of pure beauty, svelte of style, elegance and grace. I move with speed, stamina and finesse. And men, what’s their take? A finely tuned, well-oiled machine. Yeah, right. What do they know?
Yet, I am not perfect. Far from it. I have had many uneventful yet joyful years in my youth and early adulthood. During my middle years things began to break down. As I recall, an auto accident rendered me incapacitated for many weeks. Yes, I recovered, although my heart, the engine of my being, has been weak for a few years. I presumed because I smoked profusely. Thank God for modern technology. No more smoking for me.
Lights! Camera! Action! I can run and hold my own with the best of them. Shows, parades, you name it, they want me. Okay, so I’m boasting a wee bit. What do car-guys call it? “Oh yeah, she’s a great five-footer.” Big deal! At my age sweetie, that’s truly high acclaim.
Just the other day, I was at the super market when this rather weight challenged lady told me, with an added “wow”, how really nice I looked for my age. I knew from her statement she didn’t have a clue as to my real age. So I thought I’d be a wise ass and told her that I thought I looked pretty good for an eighty-five year old. Quick as a headlight blink Ample Annie fires back, “Honey, if you’re eighty-five, I weigh a skinny hundred and twelve.” That’s hutzpah! I think I’m in love.
I love people, especially the ladies. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, but you’d be wrong. Guys? They’re okay. But damn, they are boring with egos as big as they wished their Willies were.
Yes, I may be full of a crude mixture of volatile fuel that rapidly accelerates my being, but what do you expect from a sixty-year old with the moniker: Thunderbird.
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Click to see: Nobody's Nomad by W. G. Warren.