Today's Poetry Jam theme by The Bug is about being 67, whether that's future present or past. I admit to not being terribly inspired this weekend, but I did play bridge at the club on Saturday, and we did win (again! who'd'a thunk it?). My position there as young pet to be cooed over and coddled will eventually fade away, and I came up with this.
Bridgeaddict at 67
When you're retired, you can play bridge at the club every afternoon of the week except Sunday. Monday is Chamalières. Tuesday is Desaix, going back for seconds in the evening. Wednesday and Thursday are Lafayette. Friday is back to Desaix, Saturday Lafayette. Like clockwork, you make the rounds. Even Sunday's there's often a tournament somewhere, and if not, you can always fix up a foursome at home.
The Tuesday evening game is the best. The young people come to that one after work, and you can talk about something else for a change. You've got to encourage the young people to come, for who else will be filling the clubs in 20 years time?
20 years ago you were one of them. One of the Young People. It's curious how the time goes. One day you're the belle of the ball, the marvel everyone wants to partner with. You weren't that young, admit it, but with this gang, not-retired-yet is plenty young. It was a pleasure to come to the club then (as it is now, but of a different kind). For the workday you were the oldest, the boss, the stick in the mud. Tuesday nights you were the kid, the adventurer, the learner.
You mocked (gently, slightly, and never out loud) the bluehaired women living from tournament to tournament, counting their master points, then. Today you are one. Trump that.
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