Saturday, August 1, 2009


I've been on the hunt this morning, pointing and clicking to my prey. It's not for me
that I do this, rather it's for my darling housemate, he who is pretty much computer illiterate.

I don't say that as any sort of criticism, believe me. I watch him work on engines, and while I get what he's doing, I can't follow in his wrench tracks. So it is with him when I'm on the computer. It's a balanced relationship. I tell him to keep his virus protection updated and he tells me to keep air in the tires.

On Fridays, I breeze in the back door stoked for the weekend. Dogs, cats, and man scatter out of my way as I bolt for my old ratty cut-off jeans and a tee shirt. Yesterday, I walked in the door and froze. On my hubby's monitor screen was a very small copy of the Farrah poster. You know the one.

My over-sixty, balding, slightly pouchy, and definitely myopic man greeted me with a very sheepish, "hi."

Yeah, baby, you're busted. I already saw it. Ya old lecher.

I tried, I really tried, not to laugh at him, but if you'd seen his face, you'd have laughed with me. Then he looked at me and said, sadly, that was the biggest picture of the poster he could find. What else could I do but offer to find a higher resolution of it for him?

And for me.

I miss the way I was in the late seventies. Free, on my own for the first time. Still innocent about the ways people hurt other people. Still unaware of impending betrayals and the breaking of promises. Believing in the myths of marriage and life never ending. The Farrah poster somehow captures that era, freezing it in one perfect moment.

Those days are gone, but never forgotten, just like a beautiful woman with a bright smile.

KC Kendricks

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