Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Why I am an octogenarian, on the inside

My cousin’s friends came to visit her while we were all at Terracina, a little beach town about an hour south of Rome. They are all early twenty-somethings, single and totally unencumbered.

We were having coffee the morning after they came, and the girls wandered into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, and smelling of smoke.

“What’d you guys do last night?” I asked, ever the interested cousin.

“We went for a swim,” said the dark-haired one.

“Oh, cool,” I replied. I took a sip of coffee and continued to show my interest in their lives: “Did you go in your clothes?”

“No,” the blonde said.

“Oh, so you wore your bathing suits?” I persisted, for some reason very interested in the logistics of this late-night dip.

“No,” said my cousin.

“Oh,” I replied, my head dense as a block of Parmesean cheese, “But if you didn’t go in your clothes or in your swimsuits then what . . . . “

The girls looked at each other and smiled, exactly as if they were talking to their very obtuse grandmother and debating whether or not they should really explain the concept of the skinny dip to her.

“Oooohhhh,” I said, mortified, “I get it now. Right”

What am I, a Mormon? Am I a hundred years old? Has it been THAT long since I ran into the ocean buck naked?

Man, oh man, two kids in two years does age a girl. No doubt.