I decide it's the petite blond
reading Nora Roberts and listening
to unknown music through headphones from her pink-cased iPhone
who is responsible for the waves
of disturbing flatulence,
so strong I cover my nose
with my sleeves.
with each round of beverages,
and I am only mildly concerned
about my water-bloated bladder, and
sleeping husband, admonishing the forgotten Southwest drink coupons left
in the top drawer of my desk.
He claims I will not sleep tonight,
or shouldn't, but the three Schlafly's
we had during our terminal dinner
far outpace any normal Friday,
where we are more likely to claim our pillows
at first sight of darkness rising,
regardless of the temperament
of our children.
Tomorrow we celebrate a birthday
marking an age twice that of my last
trip to "sin city," where the strip was
little more than a sequence of sexy flyers, not-so-frequent watery drinks, and an overwhelming craving for citrus.
I'm not sure if I will fall into the temptress of gambling,
-though I like the illusion of "winning"-
but if it could lead to an extended massage, or a robe-clad early morning penthouse balcony coffee,
I might give it a try.
We pass time skimming a copy of Runners World
asking with each photo if we think the subject is "younger or older?" than we.
it's maybe a morbid fascination with age, or aging, but one I find amusing, and he
not so much.
My gray streaks I've come to love, mostly.
it's the aches and stiffness of body
that make me long for youthfulness-not youth itself, mind-but the health I once took for granted, and
I think this trip, he hopes,
will remind him of a younger life
but I'm pretty sure it will just make me
feel my age, more acutely.
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