Nag, nag, nag

FIT TO BE

 

Thirty minutes, twice a day, every day, I'm on my stationary bike. Don't laugh. Don't even mention what a whoose you think I am. First of all, turning the rusty pedals on this twenty year old relic would be tough for a young buck, but I am already sixty, have had two 'mild' heart attacks and am fifteen pounds overweight. Just lay off laughing at my big derriere. If anything, you should encourage me to buy a treadmill and to stop sneaking cold chocolate milk shakes.

 

Rosie's on my neck almost always because she's bored and hates me since I made her preg forty years ago. It was her fault as much as mine. The baby being a premie and dying when he was only a week old is a craw in her mind. Trite as it is, she's bored out of her gourd and takes it out on me.

 

Today she just about orders me to go to the mall with her, walk it twice, rest and then go clothes shopping. 'You really need a new sport coat or a suit, decent trousers that zip all the way up, a sport shirt or two, and T shirts don't count. You need a dress shirt, too, just in case we go someplace or another friend dies. AND Mr., You should have it in case you die too. I don't want to see you laid out at all, but in your yellowed white shirt, I might lie down next to you in embarrassment. We can pick out two silk ties, too. You have two, I know, but one is only two inches wide and went out of style long ago and the other is 4 inches wide, big stuff in the 50's. This century 3 ½ " is in.' God damn, she's such a nag.'

 

I pedal an extra fifteen minutes today, huff and puff and seriously begin to think things over, without listening to Rosie's meowing. A brain storm hits. I'll ask her to go with me. She reads ads and knows who has what and prices of ladies clothes and surely knows more about men's wear than I do. My Social Security and Workmen's Comp checks are in the bank, there is still some of our inheritance money left. We can swing it. Something just pops out. 'Rosie, Rosie,' I call. ' I'll be there as soon as I straighten the bedroom.' That might mean never but I let her know I heard her. 'O.K., Rosie, just come down before lunch. I'll be on my bike.' Sweat is pouring down my back. I don't hear her come in until she puts her hands around my eyes and says, 'Guess who.'

 

I stop pedaling and make an effort to be nice. 'Honey, how about going clothes shopping with me, for me?' I butter her up. 'You are right, you're always right. It's time I open my eyes.' Rosie's face gets rosy. Her blue eyes twinkle and she gives me her Carole Burnet big laughing smile. 'Let's go to Macy's first. They always have sales.' What has come over me? 'Whoa, Babe, I have to shower and put on clean underwear.'  Maybe George's dying so suddenly has snaked into the all of me.

 

Try this, try that. It comes at me like a starving lion. The salesman talks a little swishy so I don't let him come in the dressing room with me. Rosie makes sure everything fits a little tight. I know her. She thinks I will lose weight that way. The salesman talks her out of it and I take the next size, feel more comfortable. My new suit needs a bit of alteration, sleeves shortened ½ inch and the bottoms hemmed.

 

Smug, proud of herself, Rosie insists we stop at Smart House, a new store that sells exercise equipment. 'Come on, Rosie. I've had enough. We can do this another time.' No, now is the time. Try that treadle. It will fit where your old exercise bike is. Try it!' She just won't stop. 'Rosie, I'm tired. I want to go home.' She insists I try one that has a steeper walk.' I try it and have trouble breathing. That is all I remember.

 

The mortuary is filled and I see myself lying in my coffin, not a lot of flowers or friends around me, but god has let me see myself and I think I look darn good in my new suit.

 

The silk stripe tie is perfect.