Young 'uns, I don't know that you entirely grasp the glamor and mystery of maturity (which in some jaded circles is called "old age.") Let me tell you, the
golden years are just chockablock full of sensual romance of a kind that you might not now appreciate.
Just the other day, for example, we were both instructed to make another visit to the phlebotomist (it seems hardly a month goes by that some specialist or other doesn't need to inspect a sample of our personal sanguineous fluids).
Being economical people, we scheduled our appointments for the same time, same place.
Her blood draw was in anticipation of a knee replacement; mine for routine monitoring of my half-a-dozen annoying senior conditions.
So there we were, side by side, in adjacent cubicles, stripping our sleeves for the venipuncture.
I ask you, is there anything on earth more romantic than a senior couple experiencing simultaneous blood draws. Rapture, rapture! Joy and jollity!
In a merrier world, the instant of venipuncture would have been accompanied with an orchestra of swelling music, perhaps Brahms. And there would have been candles; next time this happens, we'll surround ourselves with a whole Liberace of candelabras. Dozens of long stem red roses. Beakers of Veuve Cliquot '42. An applauding audience of family and friends.
It would have been even more thrilling if my technician hadn't taken three tries to hit the mark. "Your vein rolled," she said accusingly, compromising ever so slightly the transcendent moment.
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