I admit to hitting six decades in June. Not a thrilling milestone. For me, more impact than hitting 30 or 40 or 50.
Sounds old. And it is, especially to anyone younger than 60. Sure there are lots of people older, but they are OLD. OLDER. And not getting younger.
We can kid ourselves about getting better. But all the medical research (and personal experience) indicates our bodies have begun to go: hair turning gray, eyesight dimming, hearing waning, boobs heading south, waist expanding, butt sagging, knees dragging. Feet flatter. Instant response time increasing. Forgetting things.
To celebrate this dubious milestone, four friends decided on a girls’ night out. We all have birthdays in June, July, and August, turning between 60 and 65. Our night out involved dinner and bar-hopping (OK, just two bars, but for us that is two more than usual). We exchanged our summer daywear for fancier attire, combed our hair and put on makeup. And wore heels (not high ones; at our age we would have ended up with blisters and bad backs).
The first stop was dinner at a tapas restaurant, characterized by low lights, high prices, small portions, a fancy ladies’ room, and great food. We drank just enough wine to make us somewhat tipsy, and ate to our heart’s content. This celebration was worth throwing diets to the wind.
Exiting the restaurant, we walked out into the summer night shore air. It was refreshing and energizing, encouraging us to walk along the boardwalk and enjoy the evening.
We strolled a couple of long beach blocks to Bar #1, found a table and settled in to enjoy the band and order drinks. But nothing happened. No one came over to our table or seemed to acknowledge our presence.
We listened to the music and the minutes ticked away. After being studiously ignored by the waitresses dressed in skimpy red bikinis, we realized we were not going to get any service. We figured we did not meet the criteria of the hip, young, chic crowd the bar wanted to attract. We gave up, got up and left.
Walking another couple of blocks we decided to try Bar #2. We arrived about 11:05 and were told that after 11:15 the bar waived the $5 cover charge. This was a no-brainer for four long-suffering frugal friends. We waited.
At exactly 11:15 we again entered the outdoor beach bar and found a perfect round table in a corner booth. Swirling white curtains surrounded three sides of the cubicle. We settled in, enjoying the view of dark ocean on one side, the bar and dance floor in front of us and the lighted, bustling boardwalk beyond.
A few minutes later a waitress stops by and informs us that this delightful space is available for rent for $100. We looked at each other, sprinted out of that pretty but expensive booth, found a table among the common people and ordered drinks.
The band of three large (obese by medical standards) Italian brothers sang their hearts out to music we loved, oldies but wonderful goodies. We danced and sang along until the final song. Nursing our drinks, talking and laughing, we were the last ones to leave the bar.
When was the last time four sexty ladies closed a bar!?
And finally it was time to return home. Normally by this time of night we would have been asleep for hours. And one of our group did fall asleep at bar #2; however before we could take her picture she was rudely awakened by bar noise.
Reluctantly we headed home, exhausted but sorry the festivities were over.
There is something about reaching 60 that makes you realize time is limited, when it is no longer smart to keep putting off what we want to do.
Vive the Sexty in the City girls!