I think it’s been about five years now. Five years since H and I went to visit J in California for spring break.
On our plane ride out there, H sat next to a friendly elderly woman – about 70ish we presumed at the time. Once the plane took off, the old woman took out two things. A bag of Cheetos and a trashy romance novel.
I can remember giggling like crazy with H as we both tried to get a glimpse of the text in the book. It’s not often you see a grandma shamelessly perusing a book with terms I would never think of publishing on my blog.
The funny thing is, I’m beginning to think that might be me someday. For whatever reason, it’s much more difficult for me to really get into books that are educational and/or political. Nope. A good book, to me, is one that’s provocative, poetic and page-turning.
Take, for instance, my somewhat shameful admission that I am currently reading a book by Jackie Collins. Yup. Jackie Collins. Not something I’m incredibly proud of, yet, I can’t seem to put the damn book down.
Thinking back to that old woman, I still catch myself giggling now and then. Not because she simply had the trashy romance novel, but because she was on a plane with more than 200 people and she wasn’t embarrassed in the least.
I suppose when you get into your 70s, you’re done caring what people think of you.