Growing Old in Paris

I'm moving to Paris! Here's why. I can't believe I forgot to tell you.

By the way, it couldn't have been much more than 50 degrees when I left for work this morning, yet the air conditioning was on in the hospital. I'm wearing a wool skirt, two shirts, a corduroy jacket, and knee-tall boots. Still there are goosebumps all over my body.

This is how I shall begin my first phone-sex call when I start my new business in Paris. I plan on succeeding.

When I went to get food in the cafe a bit ago I saw the most bad-ass old man getting himself a fountain soda. I wish I'd had a camera so I could share him with you visually. He was wearing a ship captain's white hat and a black satiny jacket with the Soul Train logo needlpointed into the back in an assortment of colors. Grandpa Soul. He was about half my height. On the way back to my office there was an old lady wearing yet another bad-ass coat: mid-thigh length, Brady-Bunch plaid in olive and chartreuse over cream. Wearing great coats might be the only thing positive about getting old. Unless it gets better after you've forgotten you lost your memory and no longer mind shitting yourself in public.