The fourth weekend of firsts
At my age, not a lot of new stuff happens to me. Admittedly, a lot of bizarre things occur when I go on dates in LA, but that falls into the bad date bucket. This weekend I had two unusual events happen to me.
The last time I wore a bikini, my age was a single digit. While visiting my 70-something Aunt, she suggested I go to water aerobics with her. I didn’t bring a suit. She went into one of her many hording closets and pulled out a bikini.
“Wow, Aunt Marna, this looks like it may be from the ‘60s and could fit,” I said.
“They don’t make them like that anymore,” she said like a typical old person.
It did, indeed fit and had those mid-boob seams that come up from the rib to the nipple to create a torpedo tit. Everything was stable and in place. I survived water aerobics and had no wardrobe malfunctions, but I may have shocked a few of the old folks with my tattoo.
On Independence day, we were driving back from a winery with the dog in the back seat. I was the last in a long line of cars hauling ass down Route 1. A cop in the opposite direction 180-ed and pulled me over. 75 in a 55. The CHiP was not amused when I said in my best F-me voice, “you know you are my first, sir” when he handed me my inaugural CA speeding ticket.
“I don’t know about that ma’am.” he replied and then walked away.
I want to believe I was his funniest and most sober traffic stop of the day. Maybe he would of laughed if I had my bikini top on?