Now Tilde had been a first grade teacher for 47 years. She had been the church organist and had provided the flowers for the church, plus she had served on every committee around. But ooooooooooh....when Mrs. Henry Dade Snothead told her she had not played the wedding march correctly for her granddaughter's wedding, Tilde had blown a gasket. “Mrs. Henry Dade Snothead, play your own damn music, fix your own damn flowers, and run your damn big mouth,” she had said in a very forthright and straightforward manner. Tilde picked up her purse and her big flower basket and left the church.
She went home, sat down and cried, cried for nearly two hours afore she jumped up, opened the freezer and took out a box of Twinkies, thawing them and eating every one, plus two pieces of pie she had baked for the Bridge Club. Afterward, as she walked down the hall, she stopped in front of a big, full- length mirror.
“Tilde, you dang fool, look at you, an old lady, an old spinster, dressing dowdy and frumpy as you spend your life helping others.” She then unbuttoned her dress and let it drop to the floor, standing there in only her silk slip. Now Tilde was not fat, not skinny either, and she actually had a shape neath those awful clothes. She shed her slip and stood there in her undies. Then with a smile she placed her hands under her breasts, lifted them, and grinned. She pressed her near-flat stomach and laughed at her baggy drawers. Then she pushed her drawers down and took her bra off, slowly turning around. She again lifted her breasts and liked the way they stuck out. She looked at her whole body. “Not damn bad," she said. "Not damn bad.”
She went into the dining room, took out the wine, took a small glass, poured it full and drank it. She grinned. Then she filled a crystal water glass with wine, went back, picked up her clothes and went upstairs. She went into the bathroom, rummaged around and found a box of dye she had bought a few years back. She drank some more wine, then she dyed her hair. And while still grinning like a mule eating briars from too much wine, she dyed her pubic hair.
She went into the other bedroom and rummaged through Bill’s things, finding a pair of jeans and an old gray sweatshirt. She she found a pair of Bill’s old sneakers, tried them on, and they fit. She put them on, without bothering to put any undies on. She was having fun. She tied her dark brown hair back with a rubber band, went down stairs and got out the phone book. She found the number and placed a call. “Wednesday morning at seven-fifteen? Fine.”
The phone rang and Tilde answered. “766- 4321?” The voice on the other end asked if she would fill in at the dog pound that afternoon, and would she chair a drive to save the geese in the town park. She tried to please everyone, she thought, but found that it was impossible. So she decided then and there to screw the lot. Tilde was going to have fun.
She hung up. After lunch she went to the grocery store and bought two carts full of groceries, all the foods she used to like, and for one reason or another had avoided. Next, she went by Leo's and bought a goodly supply of booze, and six cigars.
On Wednesday morning Tilde had breast implants. “I want them to sit high and I don't want them too large,” she told the plastic surgeon.
Just the other night Tilde was seen out with Jed Hanson, a local shady character. Maybe she would get lucky, she thought, but her new motto grew on her. Screw the lot. Let someone else do it.