'Hey, nice jugs!'

I used to hear that a lot back in the day

Usually when I was carrying pitchers of beer to the dining room. (Stupid, I know—but funny, and it was the1990s.) I don’t think anyone would dare to say that now, at least not within earshot.

#MeToo movement aside, I’ve aged out of the saucy, flirty stage of working in a bar, when it doubled as both job and social life. It’s a relief to get old (in more ways than one). I work the day shift now, and though there are still plenty of laughs, the jokes are different.

I was talking to Tom, a new customer, on Monday. He was around my age and killing time before going to meet his family for lunch. After talking about the state of the world for a few minutes, he said, “Well, all we can do is mope.” Laughing, I agreed. “I’ve certainly been doing a lot of that lately.” Instead of commiserating, though, he looked confused, it turns out I had misheard. “All we can do is vote,” is what he’d actually said, but my hearing (along with my jugs) is not what it used to be.

He finished his drink and went to the restroom. As he headed out the door, I said it was nice meeting him, and we shook hands. His was a little damp and he said, “Sorry about that; I wash my hands once a week—whether they need it or not!” (Stupid, I know—but funny, and it is the 2020s.)

Later that afternoon I met Jesús, a sharp-looking man seeking a draft Coors and IT support. He’d just bought a new USB cable and, while his flip phone was charging, Jesús mentioned he would be turning 84 the next day, and planned to go flamenco dancing to celebrate. I loved his hat, and asked if I could take his picture.

Jesús

I waited on a few other customers, then circled back to Jesús. He told me he came to New York from Puerto Rico in 1963, and has lived in Chelsea ever since. I showed him the photo I’d just taken; he was pleased and asked if I’d like to take another one.

“Sure—just give me a minute, I need to check on some customers in the dining room.” When I returned, his back was to me as he gazed out the window. “OK,” I said, “I can take another photo now.” He turned, and suddenly I was face to face with Zorro.

Jesús/Zorro

Well, that was unexpected. He told me keeps the mask with him at all times, but the cape is at home. “I am like Zorro—I have everything except the horse; I live in a small apartment.”

I don’t think I have to tell you how much I loved this man. And what a way to age. It got me thinking about the freedom that comes with getting older, and what a marvelous thing it is to reinvent yourself. Change is the only constant; we may as well just ride the wave and see where it takes us.

It’s the complete opposite of getting plastic surgery, and going to extremes to try to somehow stop the clock.

If you are lucky enough to be in reasonably good health (and have enough money to keep a roof over your head and food on the table), then there’s really no limit as to what you can become.

It reminded me of meeting Elizabeth Eaton Sweetheart Rosenthal, the Green Lady of Brooklyn, at a party last summer. Like Jesús, she is also 84 years old, found her way to New York City in 1964, and in this video, talks about how the color green changed her life and brings her joy.

Green Lady of Brooklyn and me

Society tries to make the elderly invisible—people hate being reminded of death, and there’s also big money to be made in the anti-aging market.

And then there’s people who speak admiringly of those aging “gracefully,” but how patronizing is that?! How about we age wildly, aggressively, quietly, joyfully—any way we damn well please.

I’ve caught myself moping a lot lately—about being tired, depressed, and feeling old. Some of it is fair, we’re pretty much ALL tired of living in this dystopian Trumpian nightmare, and boy—is it ever getting old.

But maybe we should take stock, not in the market, but in our own lives. Last year I wrote a LBB story about my retirement plan, which I think still has some validity, but maybe needs a little updating, a little more style, a little color.

I loved The Bionic Woman as a child (and I already have the knee), but Wonder Woman’s crown could easily be schlepped in my handbag (or slid over the bars of my walker) and popped on quickly should the need arise.

Who knows? Some snoopy bartender might ask to take my picture, after all. (Stupid, I know—but it might be funny in the 2040s.)

Lynda Carter, Wonder Woman, 1976

The present absolutely sucks, but the future doesn’t have to. Let’s start planning for a fantastical life now—no matter who’s in office, or how old we are.

And maybe some flamenco lessons wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world.