Never Get Old

In 1938, Watty Piper edited a book titled ‘Stories That Never Grow Old.’ Sixty years later, I still remember the story about the teeny-tiny voice, which came from the teeny-tiny closet, and demanded, “Give me my clothes.” Not that I was around in 1938; I just remember the story because it was one we shared at sleepovers, with the flashlight under our chin, trying to scare each other.

Years later, my friends and I are still telling stories, however, we don’t have flashlights under our chins. Instead, we may have another chin under our chin and we definitely have a glass of wine near our chin(s).

MyFace, Q, That’s Not Chinese and I got together for drinks and, since we are a relatively harmless bunch, That’s Not Chinese invited Unfazed. As Unfazed got to know MyFace and Q, MyFace shared stories with her. One of the stories MyFace shared is a story that will never grow old: The Wine Train and the Plastic Policeman. This is a story about four girls on a wine train in Napa Valley and one of the girls (could be me) quite enjoyed the wine, spirits and company of other wine train patrons. The story ends with what we referred to as the ‘Plastic Policeman’ asking if he needed to administer breathalyzers on us. Seems like a silly question to ask patrons of a wine train.

MyFace continued to tell stories about our adventures abroad, specifically, the time we were trying on dresses in Colorado. The dressing room did not have a door, rather, it had a cloth curtain that hung about one foot above the ground. Thus, if you were sitting outside the dressing room – as one man was – you could see the feet of the individual(s) trying on clothing. While sharing a dressing room with MyFace (this alone was entertainment enough for the man outside), I tried on a dress that was quite sheer and, being ‘commando,’ decided I best see how it looked with underwear. MyFace kindly obliged and loaned me her underwear (I didn’t even have to grab flashlight, use a teeny-tiny voice and demand, “Give me your clothes.”). From the ‘outside,’ the scene was this: a pair of underwear slipping off the legs of one girl in the dressing room; you see a hand retrieve them; and next thing you know they are slipping onto the legs/body of the other girl in the dressing room. “We’re not just good friends, we’re a good time,” I told Unfazed and added, “Plus, MyFace is the kind of friend who would not only give you the shirt off  her back, she’d give you the underwear off her crack.”

“Are you sure you want to be part of this group?” MyFace asked her. “Oh yeah. This doesn’t bother me,” Unfazed replied, unfazed. “That’s good, because these stories are told time and time again,” I advised her. Although the details of the stories, like most memories, may change over time, they, like us (this includes you, Dimple Sister), never get old.