Sometimes I cannot believe the words that fall out of my mouth. They are random, strange, and provide a telling glimpse into the changes I am experiencing as I age. I have to laugh and roll my eyes, finding humour in the brain fog, idiocrasy, and "old lady-ness". 

Things I've said recently:

I bought a pill box today.
Maybe I should consider a nightly skin care routine that actually involves washing my face.
I need to pick up more Metamucil.
I think this is hormonal.
How many supplements do I need to take?
I need to blow-dry my hair standing naked in front of an open window, otherwise I might die of a hot flash.
Are two naps in one day too many?
I can’t read that. Bring it closer.
Is it 9pm yet? I’d like to go to bed.
My B12 is low.
It’s too hot to wear a bra.
When did the part of my brain that could properly park the car stop functioning?
How are my iron levels?
I don’t want to snuggle in bed. I’m so sweaty.
Maybe we should ingest a teaspoon of coconut oil in the mornings. Or apple cider vinegar. Or both.
My brain is not communicating with my body today.
The nurse who was doing my ECG looked like she was trying to untangle Christmas lights.
When should I stop taking birth control?
My hips are tight. I need a massage.
It’s very people-y there…
How late does the concert start? That’s past my bedtime.
 
You know you are getting older when…
​How would you finish the sentence?

A farmer’s market makes me feel like a seagull with a French fry. A childish grin rooted in pure joy and excitement spreads across my face as I revel in my good fortune. It really doesn’t get much better than leisurely strolling through aisles of quirky artisans, organic vegetables, home baked pastries, and eccentric characters strumming the guitar. My ADHD is in its full glory taking in the sights, sounds, and smells which envelop my senses.

For the most part, a farmer’s market is fairly predictable. While the creativity vendors showcase is admirable and occasionally surprising, I generally know what to expect upon arrival—local wineries offering small samples, a granola-y woman showcasing crocheted potholders, wooden carvings that look as gnarly as the man who whittled them, luscious bouquets of jewel-coloured flowers, and a booth with handmade soaps and candles which rivals Bed, Bath and Beyond. As a veteran farmer’s market attendee, I thought I had seen it all. Until last weekend.

After enjoying a scrumptious farm to table breakfast, my girlfriends and I decided to wander over to the market, mere blocks from the restaurant. We sipped our iced coffees, sampled the offerings, and laughed as we reminisced about the previous night’s shenanigans. Then, we came upon a tent which seemed to display no goods at all. Instead, three elderly men sat in lawn chairs underneath a sign which read, “Old Coots Giving Advice: It’s probably bad advice, but it’s free.”

The men looked like aging hippies, throwbacks from an expressive and experimental time. Tie-died shirts, scruffy beards, and delicate blue flowers painted daintily on their cheeks and foreheads. They had a tip jar which was labelled Legal Defense Fund, and I was immediately drawn in by their laid-back nature and obvious good humour.

“Do you have a question for us?” they wondered.

One of my girlfriends stepped forward. “We’re all in a moment of transition because our children have graduated from high school. What should we do with all our free time now?”

After conferring for a minute, one of the Three Wise Men offered this advice:
“We suggest you go immediately to the bar and find the youngest boy you can. Take him home with you. He can either become your boyfriend or you can parent him.”

Hilarious!

Needless to say, we spent a long time chatting with these gentlemen, inquiring as to how and why they chose to spend their weekends giving bad advice to strangers. They were interesting, joyful, and had perspective which comes only from having lived a little.

As we walked away, my girlfriends and I marveled at the genius of their idea. How awesome would it be to spend a Saturday morning sitting at the market, laughing with old friends, and having conversations with random people? Maybe we should set up our own booth--Moms with Mimosas Giving Bad Advice!

The conversation then extended to ways we would like to enjoy our free time now that our children were on the preface of carving their own paths in the world. We could take dance lessons (only if we wear tongue-in-cheek hip hop attire), start a book club (raunchy romance porn only), schedule monthly get togethers (to paint canvases Bob Ross style)…

It seems, despite the silliness and humour of the answer given by The Old Coots, they had wisely laid breadcrumbs for us to solve our own question. The world is now our oyster and we have the glorious opportunity to create our own fun.