Life after Sixty Series
The old man and I play a lot of charades lately.
And no, we aren’t particularly keen on party games. Nor are we attempting to relive our summer camp experiences (because we never had any.)
Well, maybe the old man did a couple of boy scout camps but they didn’t play charades. I’m sure they were too busy cutting down fragile tree saplings and killing tiny little forest creatures with their sling shots to bother.
We play charades because we have to. Without charades we would be lost.
Because we can’t remember words. So we are reduced to a kind of sign language, of our own design, and we cheat because we use sound effects.
Generally, I’m the one doing the charading and he is the one doing the guessing. Meaning he is looking at me with the same disdain usually reserved for street mimes while I gesture and make stupid noises and stuff.
But because he is good natured he plays along or maybe he just knows that the sooner he guesses what I’m saying the sooner I will leave him alone and he can go back to looking at car stuff on his android.
Personally I kind of enjoy the process. Words are boring.
Especially words like “drill”.
One syllable. Sounds like pill. Such a mindless mime.
But when I ask “Do you know where the…is ” as I gesture with my right hand like I’m holding a tool with a trigger and make little ghirr ghirr ghirring noises, it’s kinda fun.
And since I married a super genius he answers almost immediately:
“Last time I saw it it was over on the kitchen counter by the stove”, (because who doesn’t keep a cordless drill on the kitchen counter next to the stove and the glass jars waiting for recycling?)
It’s in my immediate field of vision, which makes me feel like a dumb ass.
“Oh, thanks” I say lamely, and move in that general vicinity, trying so hard to remember what I wanted the drill for in the first place.
The old man says nothing, just goes back to phone scrolling.
Life after sixty. Such fun.
So if you ever need a partner for charades, I’m becoming quite the expert.
I do cheat though.
Ghirr, ghirr, ghirr.
copyright 2019 by Ilona Elliott
*Because getting old is such a hoot, I am going to be addressing the subject in a new series of essays, the Life After Sixty Series.
Unless I forget.