and Saturday, I Came out of the Closet…

The Pearls of the Pavillon…who are we? There’s Claire @ (93), Doris @90, Carol, Harriet @ 83, and me, Dee-Dee the baby of the group at 80.

Each Saturday at promptly 5:45P. M. we gather in The Pavilion Apartment lobby.

Come rain, light snow, freezing weather or a heatwave…we have our regular dinner date at one, or another local restaurant.

Fact none of us drive or have car…so we must walk, scooter, or use a walker to maneuver the irregular sidewalks of Manhattan.

As we “march” on Saturdays to our choice of restaurant, we appear as an undefeated army, Veterans of Life.

We laugh at ourselves and drink and dine thoroughly enjoying our comradery.

Stories told of multiple marriages, boyfriends, and childhoods.

Our Claire of Copenhagen/Bronx, Doris Long Island/Park Slope, Carol of Toronto/Nyack, Harriet, and I, from different sections of Brooklyn, are all “Pearls of The Pavilion” the Manhattan Highrise we all are tenants from.

The children we raised are grandparents themselves by now. They include Doctors, Lawyers, Real Estate Brokers, musicians, artists, writers, and a bum or in the mix.

We re-examine our late, eccentric parents and relatives, with humor and reverence acknowledging why we’re so nutty!

Politics are discussed as we are liberals, and Republicans amongst us.

We toss opinions around then shrug our ancient shoulders, summarizing, “they’re all Crooks anyway”!

Someone says something funny, and we get silly again.

Wine and banter in now flow freely.

Then as it does lately, nature calls at me…suddenly and sharply.

I gotta pee!

“Excuse me I whisper” as I stiffly rise from my seat, "Does anyone know where the Ladies Room is?”

Harriet states with authority," I know this restaurant very well. I’ve dined here many times with my first, then second husband.”

She pointed to a corner behind which I had “parked” my electric scooter, followed by Doris’ walker, squeezed into tight space, thus blocking any path for me.

This dining room was packed as this was the 1st Saturday that the mask mandate was lifted. The weather turned moderate after a bad cold spell. NYC populace was as monkeys let out of a cage.

We had been commenting, at our table, at the obviously -in -love elderly pair of lovers, holding hands, with their eyes locked into each other's.

“They are definitely not a married couple” we snickered smugly, as know-it-alls that we are.

Their white heads tilted forward to better absorb each whisper that passed between them.

Got the scene…dear reader?

Now I must push and climb over the clogged path for me to relieve my call.

I become desperate…how can I move these locked together metal beasts?

No help comes as I teeter on my folding cane, attempting to clear the bulky apparatus out. Well, who comes to my aid but the sliver haired man breaking the beautiful trance he was under? Only this ancient fragile gent comes to my rescue. He is pushing and pulling with me. To think this sweet soul might injure himself in helping me…further added to my distress.

He and I only managed the slightest progress in the movement of the stuck machines. Nobody came to assist us elderly folk. Exasperated he gallantly offers his arm for me, as I clumsily climb over the parked vehicles in the tight space.

“Please do not hurt yourself,” I pleaded in vain.

“Please do not hurt yourself,” He echoed to me.

Well, I entered the tight dusty site to discover IT WAS ONLY A TINY broom CLOSET! Not a toilet!

Now I had to collect myself to beckon the same man to help me out and over the machines then announce it to him and the staring diners, was NOT THE TOLIET… shrugging my shoulders in embarrassment while rolling my eyes.

Harriet ignorantly sent me to the broom closet. If I wasn’t embarrassed enough…my dilemma had an audience. My aerobics and the mature gentleman, heroics, had attracted the other patrons who their eating in the now filled room.

I announced,” I came out of the closet …that’s all folks!