Because we're not at Woodstock anymore...
It’s June 2016 and we are sitting in a bar in Cambridge Massachusetts.
Two elderly still lovely grandmothers, Velvet at 62 (pictured left), about to graduate with her Masters in Creative Writing and Rachel at 70 (pictured right) a writing professor and author, gulping wine between classes at the nearby university. We met at our book club in Toronto and have been friends for ten years through winters and summers. Our husbands are patiently drinking scotch and watching football.
Rachel: “Summer is coming. I loved it when I looked good in a bikini, but now I dread showing my arms and legs, all my frailties and wrinkles and crinkles.”
At the lake, pool, or beach, we hated exposing our aging skin, jiggling bits and bumps, especially surrounded by new generations.
Velvet: “Oh to have those nice long, discreet swimsuits of the 1900’s!”
Rachel: “Yes, to cover up the top of our arms, the top of our legs, and to cinch these tummies with some flow to disguise it all.”
Velvet is an author of graphic memoirs. She begins to draw a sketch on a cocktail napkin. We both focus on areas of concern.
Velvet: "There! I’ve drawn it. Now you’re the writer – you name it.” Hmmmm.
Rachel: "Bathing Boomers!"
It was only a boozy dream that we’ve made real for you!