The sound of husbands my alarm wakes me up. I guess he forgot to take it with him on his business trip. He likes to wake up to the tunes from back in the day. 21 Savage booms through the alarm clock’s speaker. That guy always puts me in a good mood. It’s too bad he’s long gone and dead. Most of the artists that were around during our time are dead. Of course, except for Beyonce. Although she got hit by truck and ran over by a train, she somehow has not died yet. Queen B is immortal.
I slowly start to sit up in bed. I make sure that I am careful. The last time I got out of bed too quick, my left hip bone popped out. I went crashing to floor and shattered like an egg shell. As I laid motionless on the floor, I tried to comprehend what had happened to me. I yelled at the top of my shriveled up lungs, for my maid Eleanor. Then it dawned on me that it was a Tuesday. Eleanor doesn’t come on tuesdays. Right when I had accepted death, I was blessed by the voice of God. He said to me, “Sofia, you have Life Alert!” Within seconds I located my medical bracelet and pressed the “Help Me” button. Once the medics showed up at my house, I was taken to the emergency room. They fixed me up real good and sent me home. Without that message from the heavens, I would have died on my hardwood floor that day. It struck me then that I am never alone, if I have Life Alert.
Alright, that’s enough storytelling. Let me get on with my day. I walk to my bathroom where I get myself ready. I take a shower in my golden-crusted bathtub and dry myself with my silk towels. Once I get dressed, I put in my pearly dentures. Ahh thats better. Then I spend the next 25 minutes checking myself out in my six -by- seven foot mirror, while I murmur to myself about how good I look. No matter how old I get, I am still as conceited as I was in my freshmen year of high school. Gosh, I love myself.
I head downstairs on my elevator, where Eleanor is waiting for me in the kitchen with my personal chef. They have set up my usual breakfast. I like to start off my day with some of my favorite foods. Two slices of pizza. One plain, one Hawaiian. A nutella sandwich, pancakes, and a chimichanga. Most people would question my eating habits. Most people would call me a fatass. Most people would care about what other people think. But not this old hag. I, Sofia, do not care what you have to say about the food I eat and the way I eat it. Besides, I’m already old and gross.
Once I’m finished with breakfast, I call up some of my friends to come hang out with me at my pool. Helen and Doris arrive soon at my front door in their bathing suits and towels. Mildred however, says she’s stuck traffic. We all know that’s not the truth. But it’s understandable. Saying you’re stuck in traffic is way less embarrassing than saying you’re stuck on the toilet. Been there, done that. Trust me if you were 87, you would understand.
Helen, Doris, and I eat lunch by the pool. Filet mignon. Then, after a couple hours of reminiscing about all the dank memes we read as youngsters, we decide to do something productive. We get in the pool and start our monthly pilates session. After huffing, puffing, and sweating for what feels like hours, we decide to finally conclude our work out. As soon as we start discussing about how we think our belly fat decreased a couple inches, I check the time and realize we only did four and a half minutes of pilates. Pathetic. Doris mentions that she thinks she pulled a hammy, so we head inside.
It’s nighttime and we are all exhausted from our backbreaking work out. Helen and Doris go home limping from soreness. Eleanor fixes me up my nightly glass of milk with cookies. I check the time and realize it is way past my bedtime. It’s already 6:30! I take my elevator back upstairs to my master suite and go directly to bed. As I lay my head on my tempur-pedic pillow, I smile. People always made it seem as if getting old is worse than hell. They made me believe that as you become older, you become miserable. But boy were they wrong. I love my life.