I was always a sucker for a man in uniform. You know – firemen, police, correction officers, soldiers, sailors – well you know.
So there I was in my local Stop and Shop supermarket perusing the fruits, vegetables and old guys tooling around leaning on their carts full of skim milk, bananas and bran flakes (oh, that’s a blog for another day!), when I saw him. He was in uniform!
I only saw him from the back but I could feel he was about 6o. He was tall, with dark hair (hmmm, now that’s a little Grecian Formula) and his uniform was sharply pressed. I love a man who prides himself in a knife crease and well polished shoes. So he did stop me in my tracks and I felt my heart thump a couple of times. Like a movie, he turned in slow motion and I got a full frontal – brown pants, yellow shirt and a brown vest – with the words STOP AND SHOP printed on the chest! I swooned!
Oh, come on, just because they’re older and can’t trip up a fleeing criminal with a well placed foot, or rush up 10 stories carrying 200 pounds of gear to break down a door with their big, bad axe, or lay down cover fire for an invading force, they still have an opportunity to thrill us. After all, these are the new career uniforms - the uniforms of part-timers. Men making supplemental incomes in a new way - how about those blue-vested Walmart cart distributors. You think it’s easy to be pleasant to every snot-nosed kid that walks into a store?
And what about crossing guards – it takes training, skill and practice to flip that stop sign in the right direction. Hey these guys weren’t baton twirlers when they were 8 years old you know! This IS a new trick! And not everyone could wear a white plastic sash. You have to have the right skin tone. Or school bus driver. What a turn-on. Like a long-haul trucker carrying eggs to market. And let’s not forget the fishnet safety orange uniforms at Home Depot. Does everyone look good in fishnets? Well think back! Not so easy, is it?
Some of my other favorites are gas station attendant. Looking at him makes me a little light headed – or is that the smell of the ethanol? Or the museum guard. Be still my heart - blue blazers and square badges and some even with ear buds in their ears just like the Secret Service. Hmmm, unless that’s their hearing aid, of course.
How many more are there, these uniforms of the seasoned man? Who needs dress blues, Scott air packs or the ubiquitous executive blue suit, white shirt and red tie? Those were the uniforms of their youth when life was racing by. When they had no time to smell the flowers, watch the sun set or steep in a tub awaiting the pill to kick in. No, now it’s making sure their few strands of hair are well combed over and there’s no dandruff on their black tee shirt as they take tickets from the hordes of pushing and shoving kids rushing to see Shrek Forever – in 3D!
Alas, I don’t think I will ever find the maroon vests at Lowes as exciting as an ankle holster, but I’ll work on it. Just one question - would you consider a hospital gown a uniform?
See you next time.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
Sex and the 60 - The Land of Enchantment
“Look over there, over your right shoulder. Oh my he’s….”
“No to your right, the one in the booth, look….”
“Wait, wait, turn around, see the one in the cowboy hat and…”
“Oh my God Miranda, pinch me, pinch me. Are we dead? This place is heaven.”
Miranda and I had taken a quick trip to Santa Fe, New Mexico. I needed to breath the clean, clear air, have a couple of days of letting my eyes stare off into the distance and settle on the purples, blues, oranges and reds of the desert. I needed to eat everything hot and spicy, moon over the Indian rugs I couldn’t afford and hear some down home country music – not to mention the excuse for drinking too many Coronas! And so now Miranda and I were sitting in a bar restaurant down by the railroad tracks dizzy from swiveling our heads to the left, to the right, to the left.
I truly don’t know why I never noticed it before. We had just been to Santa Fe a couple of years ago and I don’t remember seeing these wondrous sights. Perhaps I was still blind with grief because Miranda assures me that this is nothing new. Apparently this is the place, the vortex, the magnetic center. This place is the reason that all other parts of the United States are bereft of good looking older men. Yes, this is truly the Land of Enchantment. But more importantly, it is -- the Land of Gorgeous Older Men.
The room was full of men. There were a few young men but the majority were in their 50’s and early 60’s. Just at the age when a man can still be ‘all things to a woman’ while having learned enough not to screw around and ruin everything. These men had seen hard times, had had their hearts broken, had raised daughters, had experienced unrequited love, and had learned about a woman’s heart. These men looked like --- gay men……
“Oh no….Miranda! Stop, stop. They’re gay! It’s not possible for a man to look this good, keep himself this fit, have all his hair, dress this well and have such great teeth unless they’re GAY.” I collapsed on the table in grief. I knew it was too good to be true.
“No, Samantha, these are men’s men. You know, like the Marlboro Man without the cigarettes. You are so cynical. Look, that one is with a woman”. Indeed, the one with the close cropped more-salt-than-pepper hair in the shorts and sandals, with the great legs was with a beautiful, blond, blue-eyed, reed-thin 40ish year old. Hmmm and he was cuddling up to her in the booth - his hand lightly on her thigh under the table.
“Oh, thank god, I thought I’d lose my mind if they were all gay. I just have never experienced a nirvana like this.”
I redirected my attention to Miranda whose eyes were trained on the courtyard entrance to the restaurant. Her mouth was slightly agape and I could see she was mesmerized. I followed her gaze and there stood a gorgeous American Indian. He was about 6’2” with a rock hard body, rust red skin, chiseled cheekbones, black eyes, dusty cowboy boots, worn (in all the right places) jeans and a checkered shirt. His fine black hair was threaded with white strands and it was pulled back in a loose single braid tucked under a 10 gallon hat. Hello Tonto!
“Miranda, Miranda,” to distract her I literally had to reach over and grab her arm. She jumped and squawked “What”, but her eyes never left him.
“Miranda, look away, you’re making a spectacle of yourself,” but it was too late. I saw a smile spread across her face and I looked up at him. He was looking in our direction and there was a new twinkle in his eye. He walked directly over to our table, tipped his hat at Miranda and slipped past to the bar. Miranda looked like she had been touched by God.
I looked over at the bar and his back was to our table so I snapped my fingers in front of Miranda. “Snap out of it, will you! You’re embarrassing me.”
“Oh Lordy Samantha, I think I saw a living God”.
OK, ok, now calm down, now get a grip.” I picked up the menu and began to page through it. “Take a look at the menu. Don’t you think we have a great table? When the music starts we’ll have front row seats to see the band. Miranda? Are you listening to me?” But Miranda was on her feet and as she breezed past me she said…”You had Paris”. This I couldn’t deny.
The adorable 20 something waitress with the tattoos, hip hugger jeans and midriff blouse stopped by the booth to see if “my friend was coming back”. I ordered another Corona and turned to look at the bar. There I saw Miranda laughing with abandon and slugging back a shot of Tequila with a beer chaser. The crowd of men around her turned to look in my direction as she pointed to me. Then they all began to move toward the booth – the Indian, a short younger guy who was a bit bow-legged and two glorious gods in their 50’s all wearing the ubiquitous uniform of boots, jeans and checkered shirts, topped with cowboy hats. Ok, in for a dime, in for a dollar. I was buckling my seatbelt and taking the ride.
Their names were Rory, Chip, Jesse and Miranda’s dreamboat, Ty. They all squeezed into the booth with Miranda nearly sitting on Ty’s lap.
“Samantha, these fine boys are from Texas and they’re here with -- the Rodeo!” Her eyes were glistening. THE RODEO! Was I dreaming? Come on, I couldn’t have written a story this good (could I?).
The barbecue ribs, fried chicken and beers kept coming. We heard stories of trussed calves, bucking broncos, broken bones, dislocated hips and chipped teeth. Miranda swooned and leaned back against her Indian. Then the band began to play and I found out Rory could do a mean Texas 2-step. I danced with Rory, Chip and Jesse. And Miranda – well, Miranda made out with her Indian – on the dance floor, in the booth, under a tree in the courtyard.
“I hate to break this up boys,” Rory announced, “but we ride tomorrow and it’s time for us to go. Chip, go tell Ty.”
“Can Ty and I walk you little ladies to your hotel?” Rory asked, as he took my hand. “That would be great, if we can peel Miranda and Ty off of each other.” And he laughed.
It was a short walk to our bed and breakfast; Rory took my hand again half way there and asked if I ever found myself in Texas.
“I might have to find myself in Texas.” I sensed this was a really nice guy, probably married, very respectful and oh, oh, oh, so sexy my head hurt!
I used my key to open the door and Rory leaned up against my back. I turned and we had a long, soulful kiss. A kiss that said, “oh, another life, another time.”
“Good night,” I whispered into his ear. “Thanks for making my trip to New Mexico so very special.”
“The pleasure was all mine. You take care now honey.” And he turned and was gone.
When I woke in the morning I saw Miranda asleep on her bed wearing nothing but a checkered shirt.
Oh, well…I had Paris.
See you next time.
“No to your right, the one in the booth, look….”
“Wait, wait, turn around, see the one in the cowboy hat and…”
“Oh my God Miranda, pinch me, pinch me. Are we dead? This place is heaven.”
Miranda and I had taken a quick trip to Santa Fe, New Mexico. I needed to breath the clean, clear air, have a couple of days of letting my eyes stare off into the distance and settle on the purples, blues, oranges and reds of the desert. I needed to eat everything hot and spicy, moon over the Indian rugs I couldn’t afford and hear some down home country music – not to mention the excuse for drinking too many Coronas! And so now Miranda and I were sitting in a bar restaurant down by the railroad tracks dizzy from swiveling our heads to the left, to the right, to the left.
I truly don’t know why I never noticed it before. We had just been to Santa Fe a couple of years ago and I don’t remember seeing these wondrous sights. Perhaps I was still blind with grief because Miranda assures me that this is nothing new. Apparently this is the place, the vortex, the magnetic center. This place is the reason that all other parts of the United States are bereft of good looking older men. Yes, this is truly the Land of Enchantment. But more importantly, it is -- the Land of Gorgeous Older Men.
The room was full of men. There were a few young men but the majority were in their 50’s and early 60’s. Just at the age when a man can still be ‘all things to a woman’ while having learned enough not to screw around and ruin everything. These men had seen hard times, had had their hearts broken, had raised daughters, had experienced unrequited love, and had learned about a woman’s heart. These men looked like --- gay men……
“Oh no….Miranda! Stop, stop. They’re gay! It’s not possible for a man to look this good, keep himself this fit, have all his hair, dress this well and have such great teeth unless they’re GAY.” I collapsed on the table in grief. I knew it was too good to be true.
“No, Samantha, these are men’s men. You know, like the Marlboro Man without the cigarettes. You are so cynical. Look, that one is with a woman”. Indeed, the one with the close cropped more-salt-than-pepper hair in the shorts and sandals, with the great legs was with a beautiful, blond, blue-eyed, reed-thin 40ish year old. Hmmm and he was cuddling up to her in the booth - his hand lightly on her thigh under the table.
“Oh, thank god, I thought I’d lose my mind if they were all gay. I just have never experienced a nirvana like this.”
I redirected my attention to Miranda whose eyes were trained on the courtyard entrance to the restaurant. Her mouth was slightly agape and I could see she was mesmerized. I followed her gaze and there stood a gorgeous American Indian. He was about 6’2” with a rock hard body, rust red skin, chiseled cheekbones, black eyes, dusty cowboy boots, worn (in all the right places) jeans and a checkered shirt. His fine black hair was threaded with white strands and it was pulled back in a loose single braid tucked under a 10 gallon hat. Hello Tonto!
“Miranda, Miranda,” to distract her I literally had to reach over and grab her arm. She jumped and squawked “What”, but her eyes never left him.
“Miranda, look away, you’re making a spectacle of yourself,” but it was too late. I saw a smile spread across her face and I looked up at him. He was looking in our direction and there was a new twinkle in his eye. He walked directly over to our table, tipped his hat at Miranda and slipped past to the bar. Miranda looked like she had been touched by God.
I looked over at the bar and his back was to our table so I snapped my fingers in front of Miranda. “Snap out of it, will you! You’re embarrassing me.”
“Oh Lordy Samantha, I think I saw a living God”.
OK, ok, now calm down, now get a grip.” I picked up the menu and began to page through it. “Take a look at the menu. Don’t you think we have a great table? When the music starts we’ll have front row seats to see the band. Miranda? Are you listening to me?” But Miranda was on her feet and as she breezed past me she said…”You had Paris”. This I couldn’t deny.
The adorable 20 something waitress with the tattoos, hip hugger jeans and midriff blouse stopped by the booth to see if “my friend was coming back”. I ordered another Corona and turned to look at the bar. There I saw Miranda laughing with abandon and slugging back a shot of Tequila with a beer chaser. The crowd of men around her turned to look in my direction as she pointed to me. Then they all began to move toward the booth – the Indian, a short younger guy who was a bit bow-legged and two glorious gods in their 50’s all wearing the ubiquitous uniform of boots, jeans and checkered shirts, topped with cowboy hats. Ok, in for a dime, in for a dollar. I was buckling my seatbelt and taking the ride.
Their names were Rory, Chip, Jesse and Miranda’s dreamboat, Ty. They all squeezed into the booth with Miranda nearly sitting on Ty’s lap.
“Samantha, these fine boys are from Texas and they’re here with -- the Rodeo!” Her eyes were glistening. THE RODEO! Was I dreaming? Come on, I couldn’t have written a story this good (could I?).
The barbecue ribs, fried chicken and beers kept coming. We heard stories of trussed calves, bucking broncos, broken bones, dislocated hips and chipped teeth. Miranda swooned and leaned back against her Indian. Then the band began to play and I found out Rory could do a mean Texas 2-step. I danced with Rory, Chip and Jesse. And Miranda – well, Miranda made out with her Indian – on the dance floor, in the booth, under a tree in the courtyard.
“I hate to break this up boys,” Rory announced, “but we ride tomorrow and it’s time for us to go. Chip, go tell Ty.”
“Can Ty and I walk you little ladies to your hotel?” Rory asked, as he took my hand. “That would be great, if we can peel Miranda and Ty off of each other.” And he laughed.
It was a short walk to our bed and breakfast; Rory took my hand again half way there and asked if I ever found myself in Texas.
“I might have to find myself in Texas.” I sensed this was a really nice guy, probably married, very respectful and oh, oh, oh, so sexy my head hurt!
I used my key to open the door and Rory leaned up against my back. I turned and we had a long, soulful kiss. A kiss that said, “oh, another life, another time.”
“Good night,” I whispered into his ear. “Thanks for making my trip to New Mexico so very special.”
“The pleasure was all mine. You take care now honey.” And he turned and was gone.
When I woke in the morning I saw Miranda asleep on her bed wearing nothing but a checkered shirt.
Oh, well…I had Paris.
See you next time.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Sex and the 60 - Of Beauty and Invisibility
Some of you who have seen me lately know that I have been asking this one question over and over again to whoever appears to be listening:
If you are in a place with beautiful people do you become beautiful? And conversely, when you are in a place with ugly people, are you ugly too?
If you are from the New York metropolitan area, take a walk around midtown Manhattan and look at the people. They are all like Sex and the City come to life. Everyone, old and young, looks stunning. Then take a trip down to the area around City Hall in Manhattan and look at those people. Are they a different species? Where did they come from – these lumpy-faced, slovenly, ill-coordinated, sorry specimens? How could it be that we have all ascended from the same apes? How can it be? Even if you don’t live in New York I’ll bet you can find the extremes in neighborhoods in your community. I suspect there is some “Planet of the Beautiful People” zone in your town and one – well, shall we say Ugly Planet?! Take a look.
So I’ve been thinking – I used to work on 57th Street and Fifth Avenue, and I lived in Tribeca – right next to City Hall. So was I beautiful when I got out of the #7 train and walked east on 57th Street and then was I ugly when I walked across City Hall Park to go to South Street Seaport? Could it be that we are chameleon-like and appear as the crowd does? If so, why would anyone want to go south of 49th Street? (Keeping Saks Fifth Avenue in the beautiful zone, of course.)
This winter I reconnected with a colleague from back in my 57th Street & Fifth Avenue days. I always thought she was striking – tall, with a great figure, angular features, amazing blue/grey eyes and a great complexion. I suggested we meet for lunch at the “ladies that lunch” premier destination – the restaurant on the seventh floor of Bergdorf Goodman on 57th & Fifth, of course! When I arrived she was already seated and she looked fantastic! She had let her hair go grey/white, cut it really short and spiky, was wearing purple – a fabulous color for her now. The new hair cut made her features sharper and her eyes gigantic and a more amazing color. In short, she looked Beautiful!
The minute she saw me she exclaimed that I looked fabulous. Now I didn’t dress any differently than I do in New Jersey nor change my hair, or my makeup. I protested but she was adamant proclaiming that my hair was a great color for me; my make-up looked professionally applied (“Did you stop at the make-up counter before you came upstairs?”) and had I lost 20 lbs? In short, she said I looked - Beautiful!
I looked around the room and all around me were the most beautiful people. Each and every one of them were finely dressed, hair impeccably coifed, with flawless features. Everyone was thin, tall and had the whitest teeth. The men – although there were fewer than women – the men, regardless of age, well, they were spectacular. It was like the one time I was in a movie studio cafeteria where everyone was perfect. And now, now that appeared to include me?
I sneaked a peek at the mirror on the wall to my right and what I saw was pure perfection – Me - pure perfection? Well yes, I was beautiful. I was stunned too. I hadn’t looked this good when I shut off the makeup mirror at home hours ago. Perhaps it was true. When you are with beautiful people you too look beautiful. When I brought this up to my lunch companion she said that as a rule she only eats in restaurants where people are beautiful. “You never get a bad meal when you eat among beautiful people; somehow they always gravitate to the best restaurants.” This seemed reasonable too….have you ever had a really fabulous meal at Red Lobster? Have you looked around at the people? I rest my case – she is absolutely right.
So we had a lovely lunch of scallops and arugula salad with cappuccino and tiny biscotti cookies for dessert. We hugged and promised to stay in touch (which we will) and left each beautiful other at the corner.
I walked south down Fifth Avenue checking myself in the store windows whenever I could to see if I still looked unusually beautiful….I did! I stopped by Rockefeller Center and walked around the skating rink. It was there that a beautiful middle-aged man brushed passed me and I heard him sing “…you must have been a beautiful baby…you must have been…” and then he was gone. I smiled. It had been a long, long time since I was whispered to on the street. Ah! I still had it. What a relief!
I stepped up to the windows at Sephora, as they had hundreds of tiny mirrors on display and I studied myself – every tiny facet in each and every one of them. I was glowing and perfect….maybe I was getting more beautiful every day. They say older women get better…so why not? I guess I just didn’t notice it.
As I neared a corner two men in their late 50s were coming toward me. Even though neither of them was attractive, I flipped my hair, knowing that my fabulousness would astonish them and they too would have to acknowledge my newly-realized beauty. They were deep in conversation, although both looked at me at one time or another as we approached each other. I smiled and then BANG, they both smashed into me nearly knocking me to the ground and one stepped on my foot. They appeared stunned, like they had walked into a brick wall.
“Oh, so sorry, are you alright? So sorry, I just didn’t see you,” the short fat one said.
"Yes, really sorry, but you came out of nowhere”, the bald one with the comb-over and red complexion added and they both moved on, already back in conversation, not giving me a second thought.
Huh, what just happened? Had I turned invisible? I rushed over to the nearest store window and what I saw was me, just me, the New Jersey me, the City Hall me, the normal me. What happened? I looked up at the street sign and realized I was on the corner of 34th Street and Fifth Avenue - totally outside of the Beautiful Zone. Does that answer my question?!
So here’s the thing. If you ever want to meet me in New York City, I only travel in the following grid – south of 71th Street, north of 49th Street, east of Sixth Avenue and west of Third Avenue. Hey, there are plenty of things to do there and besides, we can spend our time looking at ourselves in the store windows. It’s Beautiful!
See you next time!
If you are in a place with beautiful people do you become beautiful? And conversely, when you are in a place with ugly people, are you ugly too?
If you are from the New York metropolitan area, take a walk around midtown Manhattan and look at the people. They are all like Sex and the City come to life. Everyone, old and young, looks stunning. Then take a trip down to the area around City Hall in Manhattan and look at those people. Are they a different species? Where did they come from – these lumpy-faced, slovenly, ill-coordinated, sorry specimens? How could it be that we have all ascended from the same apes? How can it be? Even if you don’t live in New York I’ll bet you can find the extremes in neighborhoods in your community. I suspect there is some “Planet of the Beautiful People” zone in your town and one – well, shall we say Ugly Planet?! Take a look.
So I’ve been thinking – I used to work on 57th Street and Fifth Avenue, and I lived in Tribeca – right next to City Hall. So was I beautiful when I got out of the #7 train and walked east on 57th Street and then was I ugly when I walked across City Hall Park to go to South Street Seaport? Could it be that we are chameleon-like and appear as the crowd does? If so, why would anyone want to go south of 49th Street? (Keeping Saks Fifth Avenue in the beautiful zone, of course.)
This winter I reconnected with a colleague from back in my 57th Street & Fifth Avenue days. I always thought she was striking – tall, with a great figure, angular features, amazing blue/grey eyes and a great complexion. I suggested we meet for lunch at the “ladies that lunch” premier destination – the restaurant on the seventh floor of Bergdorf Goodman on 57th & Fifth, of course! When I arrived she was already seated and she looked fantastic! She had let her hair go grey/white, cut it really short and spiky, was wearing purple – a fabulous color for her now. The new hair cut made her features sharper and her eyes gigantic and a more amazing color. In short, she looked Beautiful!
The minute she saw me she exclaimed that I looked fabulous. Now I didn’t dress any differently than I do in New Jersey nor change my hair, or my makeup. I protested but she was adamant proclaiming that my hair was a great color for me; my make-up looked professionally applied (“Did you stop at the make-up counter before you came upstairs?”) and had I lost 20 lbs? In short, she said I looked - Beautiful!
I looked around the room and all around me were the most beautiful people. Each and every one of them were finely dressed, hair impeccably coifed, with flawless features. Everyone was thin, tall and had the whitest teeth. The men – although there were fewer than women – the men, regardless of age, well, they were spectacular. It was like the one time I was in a movie studio cafeteria where everyone was perfect. And now, now that appeared to include me?
I sneaked a peek at the mirror on the wall to my right and what I saw was pure perfection – Me - pure perfection? Well yes, I was beautiful. I was stunned too. I hadn’t looked this good when I shut off the makeup mirror at home hours ago. Perhaps it was true. When you are with beautiful people you too look beautiful. When I brought this up to my lunch companion she said that as a rule she only eats in restaurants where people are beautiful. “You never get a bad meal when you eat among beautiful people; somehow they always gravitate to the best restaurants.” This seemed reasonable too….have you ever had a really fabulous meal at Red Lobster? Have you looked around at the people? I rest my case – she is absolutely right.
So we had a lovely lunch of scallops and arugula salad with cappuccino and tiny biscotti cookies for dessert. We hugged and promised to stay in touch (which we will) and left each beautiful other at the corner.
I walked south down Fifth Avenue checking myself in the store windows whenever I could to see if I still looked unusually beautiful….I did! I stopped by Rockefeller Center and walked around the skating rink. It was there that a beautiful middle-aged man brushed passed me and I heard him sing “…you must have been a beautiful baby…you must have been…” and then he was gone. I smiled. It had been a long, long time since I was whispered to on the street. Ah! I still had it. What a relief!
I stepped up to the windows at Sephora, as they had hundreds of tiny mirrors on display and I studied myself – every tiny facet in each and every one of them. I was glowing and perfect….maybe I was getting more beautiful every day. They say older women get better…so why not? I guess I just didn’t notice it.
As I neared a corner two men in their late 50s were coming toward me. Even though neither of them was attractive, I flipped my hair, knowing that my fabulousness would astonish them and they too would have to acknowledge my newly-realized beauty. They were deep in conversation, although both looked at me at one time or another as we approached each other. I smiled and then BANG, they both smashed into me nearly knocking me to the ground and one stepped on my foot. They appeared stunned, like they had walked into a brick wall.
“Oh, so sorry, are you alright? So sorry, I just didn’t see you,” the short fat one said.
"Yes, really sorry, but you came out of nowhere”, the bald one with the comb-over and red complexion added and they both moved on, already back in conversation, not giving me a second thought.
Huh, what just happened? Had I turned invisible? I rushed over to the nearest store window and what I saw was me, just me, the New Jersey me, the City Hall me, the normal me. What happened? I looked up at the street sign and realized I was on the corner of 34th Street and Fifth Avenue - totally outside of the Beautiful Zone. Does that answer my question?!
So here’s the thing. If you ever want to meet me in New York City, I only travel in the following grid – south of 71th Street, north of 49th Street, east of Sixth Avenue and west of Third Avenue. Hey, there are plenty of things to do there and besides, we can spend our time looking at ourselves in the store windows. It’s Beautiful!
See you next time!
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