My stepdaughter, Nicci, recently celebrated a milestone birthday. I'm sure it was a day filled with mixed emotions, as all such events are. Since we live more than a province away, we couldn't be there for the big day, but her father called, and I wrote several long messages. Of course, she knew what sort of wishes to expect from me on this pivotal day. Allow me to explain.
Many years earlier, 20-something-year-old Nicci told me of her recent visit to an eating establishment run entirely by "old women." She'd been shocked that such a restaurant, which professed to cater to a young, vibrant clientele, would hire these aging ladies.
"How could women of such advanced years keep up the pace," she'd asked in wonderment. "Are the faces of these 'old women' representative of the depths to which this previously thriving business had sunk?" Nicci shook her head in disbelief.
I began to envision the scene as she continued painting the rich colours of her experience at the popular Italian eatery. I saw white-haired grannies in pastel cardigans, sensible footwear (with added arch supports), and thick, brown foundation hose, scuffling painfully between tables with their arthritic hips.
A few pushed walkers in front of them, which made carrying trays of food tricky. Often, they'd pause to sit a while on the little built-in seat before labouring to their feet with a groan and continuing.
People loudly bellowed their orders at the old servers, who, leaning ever closer, cupped blue-veined hands behind their ears to hear correctly, then asked customers to repeat it three more times, anyway, just to be sure.
The staircase had been torn out, and an Acorn stairlift had been installed to allow ease of movement between the dining floor and the kitchen. However, the food was still cold when it reached the patrons due to the understandable limitations of rheumatism, bad circulation and problematic knee-replacement surgeries.
All the chairs were crushed velvet and crowned with embroidered doilies, while plastic roses decorated the pale Formica tabletops. Along one side, a sizable mahogany record player stacked with Lawrence Welk LPs played softly. In the corner, several of the staff, on their break, played a slow game of shuffleboard.
The hostess loudly ordered people to "Mind they didn't track in mud" at the door and then insisted they "Eat all their peas" as she rolled past later in her motorized wheelchair to seat new arrivals.
Cat fur lingered on everything, and a faint, musty smell of mothballs wafted throughout the room, despite the restaurant's speciality dishes of pizza and pasta extraordinaire.
I could see it all in my mind's eye and clucked disapprovingly with Nicci as we discussed how standards had been lowered in this once-youthful establishment.
"Incredible," I observed in amazement. "How old do you suppose these old women were?"
"Oh, let's see," she said reflectively. "I'd say they were at least 40." Nicci raised her horrified eyes to mine. "Can you believe it?"
"WHAT!" I cried with the sense of pure outrage only a woman in her 40s could summon.
And so, dearest Nicci, it is with the deepest love and admiration for the gorgeous woman you are that I say to you, "Happy 40th birthday! It really isn't all that old."
Find Helen at helentoews.com to read more or to order her newly released destination romance series.
