Champion Sax And A Girl Named Sandra

Champion Sax and a Girl Named ... 

What the hell does that mean anyway?

"Just what are you doing on Facebook?" I asked Sandra, the woman I'd been seeing for the last several weeks.

"Same as everybody else.  Irrevocably wasting up to one-third of my remaining life span."

"That's not what I mean," I said.  "Why are you using a current picture of yourself on your Facebook page?  You're a Boomer, just like me. Even the best of us peaked over 20 years ago."

"Oh, so you're saying I should be like you, using a picture that's so old it's approaching puberty?  Don't I look okay just like this?"

"I think you look great. But why not bamboozle the virtual world into thinking you look even greater?”

"Okay, if you want I'll post a younger picture of myself. But, Perry, you're too focused on appearance. You have other fine attributes more important than appearance."

"What are they?"

"Can I get back to you on that?"

As Sandra went to get a picture of her younger self, I called after her.

"I've been wondering: why doesn't anyone call you Sandy?"

"They used to, but then back in college people started calling me Champion Sax and a Girl Named Sandy."

"That's adorable!"

"Not if you hate the Doors," she said, returning to the room. “Anyway, here's the picture." 

I looked, blinked, and gasped.  And gasped again.

"Why you ... you ... look like ...  Scarlett Johansson! You look like … Mila Kunis!  You look like …. the child of Scarlett Johansson and Mila Kunis should there be such a thing!”

"Well, thanks, I guess back in the day, people said ...”

"I don't think you should post this picture."

"Why?"

“Because there's a lot of perverts out there!  A lot of guys with thick dandruff and coke bottle glasses named Kitchell who'll be salivating over you while building full-size models of the Starship Enterprise in their parents' basements!”

"So I'll block them, no problem."

"And there's lots of radical groups and terrorists, some of which may try to recruit you!”

“You don’t think I know enough to avoid terrorists?”

’’What if they’re giving double coupons?  And there’s cool guys of Boomer age with full heads of thick gray hair who may be charming and accomplished and interested in you!”

"Well, that doesn't sound bad."

"Doesn't sound bad?!  Post this picture and before long you're engaged to some good-looking Boomer who turns out to be an unrepentant Doors Fan who listens to the Soft Parade while he dresses up like Robby Krieger!"

"First you say ‘post it,’ then you say ‘don't post it.’"

“Let's just say I’ve evolved on the issue. Like Republican presidential candidates do."

"Okay ... okay ... I won't post it."

"Good!  Now how about we go out for coffee?”

"Sure.”

"Oh, one more thing?"

"Yes."

"Can I have the picture?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The One Who Pays

 

"This blueberry pie is awesome!" exclaimed Sandra.

"It's hands-down the best I've ever had!" I agreed, rolling another awesome piece into my mouth after initially missing and rolling the first awesome piece into my beard.

It was my third or fourth date with Sandra, the slightly younger Baby Boomer I'd met at the Bummed Out Boomers Meetup Group several weeks ago. Away from that particularly toxic environment she turned out to be a rather bright and engaging woman, and we were sitting that evening at a trendy downtown café where the pricing for coffee and pastries required use of Boolean Algebra to comfortably calculate.

“That was wonderful, Perry,” said Sandra, “and it’s on me.”

“Oh, Sandra, no, I've got it.”

"But Perry, you're a writer."

"So?"

"Unless you're Ernest Hemingway, you’re probably not making ends wave at each other, let alone meet.”

Sandra was amazing. If we went to the movies and I paid for the tickets, Sandra bought popcorn and sodas.  If we went to the art museum and I paid to get in, she bought admission for the special exhibits.  If I bought gas, she cleaned the windshield, checked the tire pressure, and paid for the gas.

Yes, sir, things seemed to be shaping up nicely for my head, my heart, and most importantly, my wallet. 

This past week we went out to dinner at a medium priced place in town and after a friendly tug of war for the check we agreed we'd split it.

"Okay, Sandra, but next time it's ALL on me, no arguments!"

"Okay, Perry, I'll agree.  Say, could we stop back at the cafe?"

"You’re still hungry?"

“No, I just want some more of that awesome pie for later."

"Sure."

"Can we get a piece for both me and my neighbor Michelle?"

"Of course."

"And also for my friend Judith and her spouse Iris, and their son Tommy, and oh yes, my Aunt Rochelle and Uncle Sol?"

"Uh, Sandra, this is beginning to look like a starting lineup.”

“And my college roommate Amy and her boyfriend Ned and my Mom, can't forget her, and my good friends Betty and Elaine from yoga and....”

“Sandra, for chrissakes, I'm a writer!!!”

“And of course Elaine from work, and the guy in the mailroom, and my ex-boyfriend Phil, and his new girlfriend, and ...”

Maybe Sandra's a wee bit mercurial.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~