Getting Old Is Tres Dangereux

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About the Author After being widowed at a young age with three small children, Rita Lakin began an extensive writing career, which has included staff writing on television programs such as Peyton Place, Mod Squad, Dynasty, and_ Strong Medicine_, as well as creating original series such as The Rookies . She has won an Edgar Allen Poe award for her screenwriting, as well as receiving several other award nominations, and her two original theatrical plays, _No Language But a Cry and Saturday Night at Grossingers_, are still being produced around the country. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. _Chapter One _ OOOH LÀ LÀ Jack is behaving very secretively this evening. First, he tells me to dress up for a special evening event. He has something important to say to me. Well, as dressed up as one ever gets in T-shirt land—that is, our senior citizen condo, Lanai Gardens in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, in case anybody doesn’t know. And also, if you’re behind the times, Jack has been living with me since the horrendous hurricane destroyed his building in Phase Six, two months ago. I dig out a peach organza cocktail dress I wore once, for my daughter Emily’s wedding, and matching high heels. I’m even wearing makeup and perfume for the occasion. Jack is in a charcoal pin-striped suit with a cherry red tie and a jaunty white carnation in the lapel buttonhole. I must admit this fiancé of mine is very handsome. As we used to say way back when—tall, dark, and handsome. Even at seventy-five, that description fits him, though his hair, like mine, is mostly gray. On him, gray is dashing. On me, it’s the color of wet cement. Ah, when he smiles at me, I get wobbly in my arthritic knees. When his blue eyes crinkle with adjoining laugh lines, I melt. Even while getting dressed for tonight, what with our traveling back and forth from bathroom to bedroom, he still won’t give anything away. Despite my obvious curiosity. I note that he seems serious about his evening’s plans. To make me even more suspicious my sister, Evvie, was not invited, nor were the other of my “girls.” Yes, though we’re all in our seventies and eighties, they will always be my girls: Evvie, my sister, loyal and loving, though a tad jealous that Jack has come into our lives and scrambled things around. Ida, she of the ramrod back, the coiled gray bun, mistress of negativity. Sophie and Bella, my Bobbsey twins; zaftig Sophie gets half-baked ideas and petite Bella takes them out of the oven when done. One might believe they invented the term second childhood. Since Jack and I are everyone’s designated driv- ers, Bella and Sophie had visions of pot roast or rigatoni tonight. They wanted to be chauffeured to an early-bird dinner at Nona’s restaurant. Naturally they forgot that I told them, twice, that Jack and I have something private planned. So now they are stuck at home, each in her own apartment, improvising dull individual dinners instead. And as we start off, I can see them sneaking glances out their windows, scowling. They are not the only onlookers. As Jack and I step out of the elevator and head across the parking area to Jack’s car, I feel other eyes peering out. Calico curtains part. Venetian blinds lift. The yenta patrol, always on the job. Especially when it comes to us. Especially now. Phase Two has been a hotbed of overwrought schemes since word got out that wedding bells are to ring shortly. A date will be set, a hundred nosy minds waiting to offer us bad advice. I can hardly wait. How can I resist? I swing my arm out the car window and send a jaunty wave to the curious watchers. So here we are, Jack and I, at a delightful little French bistro in Margate, sitting outdoors, sipping champagne. It’s a wonderful balmy evening, so clear with the stars swarming the sky with their glistening light. I feel as if I’ve been transported to Van Gogh’s painting “Starry Night.” My high heels are now kicked under the table. They were uncomfortable to walk in. I miss m