When I Grow Up I Want To Be Miss Pattie

My “over 55” neighborhood is a buzz with excitement. We’re having a big celebration for our “Miss Pattie,” who will soon turn 90.

But this won’t be one of those parties you sometimes see on the news, where the elderly wheelchair bound guest of honor gingerly eats a tiny piece of birthday cake. This is Miss Pattie, and she is a 95 pound dynamo who is as sharp as a tack.

Miss Pattie walks most nights, and has a social calendar that could probably make Laura Bush’s life look boring. A true southern belle, she makes “to die for” pecan pralines from scratch and can still charm the best of ‘em! She may not be everything she was at 40, 50, or even 70—but she is darn close.

I recently told her that when I grew up, I wanted to be Miss Pattie. Saying “I want to be like you when I get old” wasn’t respectful, and didn’t seem appropriate, since she really isn’t old.

When I asked what her secret was for the bounce in her step, and the twinkle in her eye, Miss Pattie replied, “No medicine.” Her only “medication” is a daily multivitamin. Her other advice was, “Stay positive, hold on to your faith and hope, and interact with real, live people every single day.” In spite of some adversities she has faced, like being widowed twice, she has managed to follow her own advice.
Genetics, life style and luck do play a role in our longevity. But people like Miss Pattie are wonderful role models for those of us passing through “mature” on our way to “elderly.” She is proof positive that life can continue to be good, even when you are

Mad Dog

Cat On A Hot Tin WOOF

A WOOFer spies a feral cat prowling her farm and emails her observations. The feline ventures close for food and drink. Try to pet her? Gone, baby, gone.

My friend goes on to say the cat’s behavior reminds her of a middle-age acquaintance who is always on the move. A veritable undomesticated great dame.

So maybe WOOFers and cats have more in common than previously thought.

And maybe, when a woman hits 50, any wild streak she embraced in her younger years doesn’t immediately shrivel to the size of Cleopatra’s mummified ovaries. Her graying hair (somewhere beneath the L’Oreal) doesn’t automatically signal a dullness of wit and wiliness.

Correct me if I’m wrong (which I’m not, so don’t bother), WOOFers still feel the fire “down below” and a quickening pulse at the mere mention of the Denzel Washingtons and/or Ellen DeGenereses of the world.

Sure, a Barkalounger and Social Security take precedence over bikini waxes and firm abs on the over-50 woman’s priority list.

But, hey, all that means is this...a WOOFer not only weighs more than in her 30s, she also weighs a bit more carefully her choices.

Example: Now, with the urge to be a “bad dog,” many of us sip a glass of red wine before 5 and dine on extra-dark chocolate.

A WOOFer toast: To healthy, wealthy and … wild!

—d.d.dawg