Would it surprise you, if I told you that, in the several decades that I have roamed the Earth, I known quite a number of people and that among those people, there were a significant number of women? Some of these women I have known for thirty or forty years and I have noticed a peculiarity amongst them! I’ve known some wild women and really spirited ones at that, but when they get to a certain age, they seem to throw a switch and decide that the long hair has to go, a mini-skirt is no longer permissible and so on.
I was sitting on a terrace with a lady of my acquaintance, called Zita(formerly wild Zita), who is now middle-aged and still looks a million bucks, but she has calmed down a tad, since her younger years. Just a tad, mind you, for she still behaves like an angry rhinoceros on steroids at times. I just so happened that three ladies with a purple perm, grey stockings and the whole shebang passed by. I had known these ladies three decades earlier, when they used to dance on tables and do things that would make their granddaughters blush.
I remarked on this and asked Zita, when and why women throw the switch to go from man-eater to old biddy!? I went on in a jocular manner to say that I could see Zita in twenty years time in galoshes, a scarf on her head, corset on… and that’s when the lights went out! When I came to, Zita was holding an ice bag to my eye. I was seeing rather blurry and stammered:”Gran?”… and that’s when the lights went out a second time.
I woke up practically blind, but had the foresight, this time, to keep my gob shut until I had regained what remained of my senses and then asked what had happened. She did not elaborate, but I have a fair idea of what happened. Ladies seem to be touchy on this particular subject. It is for this reason that I venture to ask it online, where I feel reasonably safe: when and why do you throw the switch, ladies? I mean, look at Tina Turner! She must be getting on a bit and she does not have any intention of throwing said switch.
To return to the subject of dear Zita, I have a wicked plan!!! I intend to emigrate back down south, to the really deep south sometime in the not so near future. After I have settled all my affairs over here, on the very last day and at the very last minute, I shall go hang a bag of treats at Zita’s door. In this bag I shall leave some knitting, purple hair dye, grey stockings, a corset, galoshes and a walking stick for good measure. I shall have a driver standing by with a getaway car and ring the bell of dear Zita’s door. Then I shall vamoose, never to be heard of again. I think it might be safer to change my identity while I’m at it, for dearest Zita has a long memory and an even meaner uppercut.