Old People Still Make Love

A Vintage Post, retrieved from Scrubbed Innocence

Mimi will turn 83 tomorrow. "Only seven away from 90, and hopefully a hell of a lot closer to death," as she puts it. Lordy me, I love her.

Last night, I ate dinner with Mimi and Sister. I don't remember what we ate-- food is so common in this blunderful country, it’s hard to distinguish between meals. But I do remember the conversation.

Sister announces she’s watched a new reality TV show called “Old People Still Make Love.” She says, “Yeah, Mimi, so I guess I know what really goes on at that Harmony Park place of yours. Bingo, pot lucks, long, slow, ointment rubs. Ain’t nuthin’ wroooonnnnnnnggggg, with a little bump and griiiiiind. Or should I say, Ain’t nuthin’ wrooooonnnnnngggg with a little—Ow! I got a charley horse in my leg!—jiggle it for a minute, would ya?—bump ‘n’ griiiind. “

“You know, kid, you’d be surprised at what you could learn from people who are older than you.”

“What, like how to handle a Viagra wand?”

“Well, trust me kid, no one needs Viagra as long as I’m around. Maybe that’s somethin’ you’ve already dealt with yourself though, huh?”

“I think we’re doing just fine here,” Sister says, patting her preggie belly.

Mimi chews her bread and butter, then says with a full mouth, “We old folks are pretty good at what we do, after all these years. We got some moves you couldn’t even dream up! And I got plenty o’ kindlin’ in here. I just need somebody with a matchstick to come light it up!”

“Have you considered using the date rape drug?”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Mimi says. This is her trademark saying.

“I know, Mimi—maybe you could drop some of the date rape drug into the punch before your next Bingo match. Then you could walk around collecting from everyone’s pockets while they’re passed out with their noses mashed into G-42, or whatever. “

“You know, that’s not a bad idea. Where could I get some of that stuff?”

“I don’t know, ask Scrubbed Innocence. “

“And why, may I ask, do you know?” Mimi says, turning to me.

My sister is referring to a time when, during my first ever visit to San Francisco, I was quite nearly a victim of a gray-haired woman named Donna. My friends had smuggled my 20-year-old self into a club in the Castro. We were getting the dance floor going, and Donna joined us. We liked her because she was a fun old hippie lady. She liked me. Probably because I was young and pretty and danced with wild abandon. And also because I was obviously too naïve to ever imagine that a 60-ish-year-old woman could have secret plans for me. She bought me a drink—I asked for a vanilla Stoli and coke (so 20-year-old).

The last thing I remember was leaving the bar with my friends, and Donna pulling on my arm, saying “Scrubbed Innocence, I really think you should stay here. Please stay here! I think you should stay!”

I didn’t stay. Yet I shudder.

I relay the story to Mimi. She sighs, not surprised, and says, “Honey, if I saw you dancing, I’d probably do the same thing.”

I remember now—it was pot roast, with mashed potatoes and spinach salad.