The Red Hats

I spotted these ladies at the Marina in Westport, New York the other day. When I’m a bit older, I want to wear a red hat and a purple shirt. I want to share a laugh and a cocktail with other silly ladies. I want to sit with a gaggle of women.

They looked like they were having a heckova lot more fun than the married couples who’ve eaten together so many times they’ve run out of things to say.

A couple of years ago, I arrived in Miami before the rest of my book club. I sat in a café and watched the South Beach vacationers. Near me sat a group of women. When they talked, they looked in each other’s eyes. They touched each other’s shoulders like comrades. They talked over each other. The married couple stared out at the ocean; they complained about the waiter’s service.

When the group of young women got up, they walked down the street and bumped into each other. They bent over in laughter. The married couple walked in single file, not talking. The man walked in front; and the woman, behind.

In South Beach I noticed all of the married couples looked miserable. The groups of women looked ecstatic.

And that’s why I’d rather wear a red hat on a hot day as I sit near the water.

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