No Touch!

I think my Poppi is turning into a dirty old man. Not like a “quick hide the prepubescents” dirty old man. But like a Handsy-Harry “lockup your Nanas” type of dirty old man. And this development distresses me.

I’m just back from the sunshine state, after celebrating the old man’s 92nd Birthday. Happy Birthday, Poppi! Homeboy looks like he’s about 80 years old. My lord, that man’s genes should be studied. He’s tan, mobile, and mentally sharp. Sharp enough to chat about tranches of packaged and securitized mortgages–Zzz zzz z z. Sharp enough to not get stuck paying the bill at dinner. Sharp enough to know the difference between charming confidence and ballsy lechery.

I’m not about to be an ageist and begrudge Poppi whatever later-in-life loving he may be getting. But there’s cradle-robbing crassness and then there’s roving-eye-tad-too-touchy classlessness. I just can’t abide by classlessness. It gives immigrants and colored folks a bad rap.

[Need further clarification on this point? P. Diddy, in much of what he does, is crass. Ray J., for the sole purposes of counterpoint, is just classless. Gaudy Italian homes on Staten Island with marble columns that were paid for in cash are crass. Bringing your goomah home and expecting your wife to cook dinner for her is classless.]

At first I thought that maybe I was just being an overly sensitive, frigid New Yorker with puritan standards of personal space.

“So he’s chatting with the 22-year-old, bikini-seam-stretching granddaughter-and-friends-of-the-downstairs-neighbor,” I thought. He’s a kind elderly gentleman; no cause for concern.

But ten minutes later he’s still looming over their lounge chairs with his crispy little chicken legs sticking out of his swim trunks. I’m watching as my beloved grandfather veers closer and closer to the creepy-old-man side of propriety. Before I work out the full logistics of an intervention that might involve hooking him off the pool deck with his own cane, my mind goes blank. All I can think is, “Please don’t pop a boner. Please don’t pop a boner!”

(Granted, at his advanced age, I should probably be more charitable and applaud any and all erections. I’ll leave charity to the white folks who still have money, and act like I didn’t just write about Poppi’s potential genital tumescence.)

“POPPI,” I’m finally forced to hiss! I use the same tone pet owners use when they’re trying to stop their teacup poodle from humping an unsuspecting stranger’s leg.

And in his nonchalant manner, he bids the bathing beauties farewell, and moseys back over to our family’s non-slutty section of pool.

“What?” he opens his baby blues all big and innocent-like.

“Sit down!” I spit out through gritted teeth. I’m not going to dignify his feigned ignorance with a counterargument in public. It’s beneath me. So instead I shoot daggers at him through my disapproving eyes, with a look that says, “If you weren’t my elder, I’d whoop your ass.”

And as he settles into his chair and affixes his baseball cap upon his full head of silver hair, he laughs.

“What’s the problem, Jana?” If Poppi were a peacock, his plumage would be on full display. “The chunky girl just wanted to know about my birthday,” he coos.

Sigh. The Poppi has always had a thing for ladies with a little extra meat on their bones.

Now don’t for a second think that Poppi only has hands for sweet young thangs. No, no; our Poppi is an equal opportunity lech. After my brother and I caught Poppi grasping someone’s grandma about the waist in casual greeting–inappropriate!–we were forced to take action.

“Hands at home!” we began to command any time we caught a sun spotted finger drifting out to caress a nearby female forearm.

Coming from our overly affectionate family–we’d totally touch the Queen!–it certainly didn’t bring us any pleasure to play Personal Space Police for Poppi. He’s a grown ass man. He taught us how to swim in the ocean. He taught my mom how to grill, which is a good thing because my Hindu Padre is definitely not winning any All-American BBQ awards in the near future. The Poppi is the one who’s supposed to keep us in line. He’s supposed to cover his ears and demand we stop shouting at the dinner table. He’s supposed to act appalled when we make cheap jokes involving nose picking or flatulence.

I’m certainly grateful that he’s not an out of touch, stuffy old codger. Hell, it means he reads my columns (even the one about his saggy balls) and encourages me to keep on writing. It’s humbling and human to see an older person grappling with issues of companionship, intimacy, and fulfillment now that his wife of 57 years is gone.

But grapple with that shit private, son! That’s why you have a significantly younger gal pal. So long as no one is changing the will in exchange for blowjobs, paw at her all you want. Just don’t let other people know you’ve become grabby in your old age. Besides, The Dead Nana is watching and I wouldn’t put it past her to strike you down with the highly communicable Swine Flu.

Then again, should I be blessed enough to near 90, maybe my dried up, prolapse-prone uterus will jump for joy the moment my Feely McGrabbyHands neighbor decides to get a little fresh when we greet. Maybe old folks need more than an IV-drip-bump to send shivers up their osteoporosis riddled spines? Perhaps Poppi’s just doing his part to let ladies, of all ages, know that they’re still deserving of a cheeky little grab. Perhaps…

[In the mood for more? Be sure to check into the Daily Dose section on the regular!]