Having nothing better to do this past Sunday, I said to Ken, “Let’s go for lunch somewhere!” A thought popped into my head, you know how they do, “Whoa! Did we just become my parents?” And the next, even more chilling thought was, “Are we starting to act like Old Age Pensioners?”
Not that there is anything wrong with being an OAP. We’ll get there eventually. It’s just that I’m not quite ready for my golden years. And please, God, don’t let us get too early to the point where we are eating dinner at 4:00 in the afternoon at one of those buffet places where the food is so soft you don’t actually need teeth. (Bless all those who are already there.)
It was the omission of another actual activity in the question of what to do on a Sunday afternoon that gave me pause.
Now, neither of us has ever been part of the rock climbing/sky diving/zip lining/white water rafting set. Sunday drives are our idea of adventure. (Ken has always said that thrill junkies ought to try working in the arts if they want real danger.) We’ve been going on great outings on Sundays for 30 plus years. We reserve Sunday as OUR day; reserved for time together. Depending on where we’ve lived, we’ve gone on hikes and dog-walks in parks, long strolls along coastal shorelines, and picnics at lakeside beaches. We’ve visited little US towns in our pursuit to discover America, attended street fairs, tasted wine and looked for roadside veggie stands, explored obscure museums (the JELL-O Museum in LeRoy, NY was our all time favorite) and poked around second hand stores in a quest for quirky vintage salt and pepper shakers.
Lunch has normally been a feature of these outings, but not necessarily the main event.
My parents were champion lunchers. For them it was high ritual. They loved going on a picnic or going to a “coffee shop” for a sandwich. I don’t think they ever patronized a fast food place. No Micky-D’s or Tim’s drive- through for my folks. They had to have a proper sit-down meal, right on the stroke of twelve noon. Picnics often featured sandwiches my mother made with ground up ham mixed with ground walnuts and her special sweet, boiled salad dressing. Odd, but tasty. When they bought a cottage in the late 60s at a lake community one hour’s drive north of Winnipeg
It has taken me a lifetime to try to shake that kind of promptness in taking meals. But it hasn’t worked. I like my meals on time.
I don’t know; maybe we are getting closer to our dotage than we think. We stopped one recent Sunday at a Frisch’s Big Boy for a burger. I ordered a regular cheese burger and cole slaw, but the mindless young thing that served us brought me a senior’s portion burger and a cup of soup! What assumption about me did she make that would lead her to do that? Do I look like I collect Social Security?
However, aside from the obvious cheek by a 16 year old who likely thought I was a fossil, I didn’t mind the smaller portion! Although the meat was the thickness of a single-ply napkin (serviette to my Canadian readers) at least I didn’t have to fudge my Weight Watcher’s points that day.
Anyway, there we were, Ken and I, this past Sunday afternoon, with no other purpose for our excursion to Miamisburg, Ohio, only 30 minutes from home, having lunch in a proper sit down kind of place more or less on the dot of twelve. We walked around the downtown a bit, but it was hardly an activity worthy of the title “Sunday Outing.”
We might as well get our AARP cards so that we can at least enjoy some discounts.
Can elastic waist pants be far behind?
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