I need a sunburn...

In an attempt to live in Anacortes rather than to just bide my time over on the West Coast, I made a trip to the library yesterday. Not a far drive (nothing's far when you live on a tiny island, though), easy to join, and though not the biggest, it had enough to keep me happy.

I picked up a couple of things I'd been wanting, including Memories of My Melancholy Whores and Eat, Pray, Love. Though this is most certainly not Moira's Book Blog-- we all know I don't have enough to say about anything but myself to constitute a blog-- but there were a few things I wanted to point out.

I'd recommend reading Memories of My Melancholy Whores for a number of reasons, but the shining moment of universal truth and humor occurred for me in a passage in which I recognized myself (I mean, yeah, it's sad that it all must relate to me, but I think that's generally how we begin to understand everything).

At his ninetieth birthday, the narrator receives various gifts from the co-workers at the newspaper for which he writes a weekly column:

The secretaries presented me with three pairs of silk undershorts printed with kisses, and a card in which they offered to remove them for me. It occurred to me that among the charms of old age are the provocations our young female friends permit themselves because they think we are out of commission.


George?! Is that you! Everybody who is reading this (KK, you could be the only one) should know George because he is this man. Though not nearly ninety, this passage reminded me so much of him. Mostly because at the restaurant each morning, I used to sit with George and listen to his tales of seducing women, of the great vacations he took and planned on taking still (with his live in girlfriend), and most unabashedly, I would flirt.

Why would I flirt with a man who admits to me that in his old age, he must go to the tanning beds ("in my banana hammock") in an attempt to ward off psoriasis? Why would I flirt with a man who sometimes tells me the same seduction stories repeatedly because he forgets that he's told me in the first place? Well, probably because I "think he is out of commission." And I am not the only one. George is a pimp. Every girl in that restaurant (and Zorb and Moe) loves him. He has confidence and charm and makes a good conversation, and because he's older I accept that he's doing all these things because he's just a cute older man who likes to talk to people.

One day George looked at me very seriously from across the table after I said something I wouldn't dare to say to somebody my own age. "You know, sweetheart," he started. "You're playing with fire." I laughed, but he shook his head. "Watch yourself."

Apparently, they're really not out of commission. (I'm guessing that García Márquez, who has, in my opinion, seemingly gotten better looking in his old age, knows all about this.)

Now, on to Eat, Pray, Love. There really are many things I could say about this, but I won't, except to note that I'm glad I am young. Very different than the last story.

Anyhow, this quote struck me and made me realize on the first page (after the introduction, that is) that I would like the way this woman thought:

Not to mention that I have finally arrived at that age where a woman starts to questions whether the wisest way to get over the loss of one beautiful brown-eyed young man is indeed to promptly invite another one into her bed.

Now, I wouldn't say that I'm particularly prone to inviting anybody into my bed, but I sure do have a weakness. And you know what? That's just fine. My relationships-with-men-ruining-self will figure it out eventually. And then maybe I'll stop. But for now, life is just fine.