Red Hats Forever!

The lovely Mrs. G. and I went out to dinner last night at Theo’s, a local steakhouse that sits way out in the country a ways out of town. Theo’s has pretty good food, and although it’s not terribly fancy, it seems to be THE place around here for big parties – proms, homecomings, wedding receptions, etc.

I’m not sure why Theo’s is so popular for dress-up night. The menus look like folded newspaper sections, there are dead animal heads (and other assorted pieces) nailed to the walls, and their salad bar proudly offers up pickled herring. Yet the way people flock there for special occasions, you’d think it was Tavern on the Green. Still, we do like Theo’s, and it was nice to get away for the evening and not have to cook when it’s 99 degrees outside.

Now, I mention all of this for this reason: Seated in the middle of the dining room last night, at about 10 tables all pushed together in a long row, were about 50 little old ladies, all wearing their matching purple polyester outfits and (yes) their Red Hats. It was the Siouxland chapter of the Red Hat Society’s night out, apparently. No wonder there wasn’t an open handicapped parking space within 400 yards of the restaurant door.

Anyway, there they were – all decked out in their fancy red hats, having dinner together. Of course, the table was so long that there was no way you could’ve heard a conversation more than 5 feet away, so I hope you were happy with who you were seated next to. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and the waitress wasn’t pulling her hair out (that I could see), so it seemed to me that everything was going swimmingly for the dear old Bats in Hats. (Just kidding, ladies! Don’t hit me with your handbag.) And I couldn't help but notice that most of the old ladies had a beer or other cocktail in front of them, so it's nice to know that Red Hats isn't a dry club. Drink up, girls! The night is young, and the hats are red!

Watching them made me wonder why there isn’t a men’s version of the Red Hat Society. I mean, there are plenty of old coots out there too, you know. I bet they’d like to all dress alike and go out on the town. Okay, maybe not the "dress alike" part, unless it means that they all had tractor and/or seed caps on, but you get my drift. Don’t the guys deserve a night on the town?

Ah, but football season is coming up. How could I forget? The guys will soon be huddled around the TV, comparing college kids with players they remember from way back in the 50’s and 60’s. “Yeah, he’s fast, but nowhere near as fast as Jackson was in the November 16, 1963 Nebraska – Oklahoma game. He ran 180 yards in the second quarter, including that 80 yard runback with only 4 minutes left on the clock.” (This of course will be said by an old man who can’t remember his own son’s birth date, much less his name.) So the men do have their own rituals and clubs, only with pigskin instead of the polyester.

I hope that when I’m old(er) and gray(er) there will be a club for people like me, who like to write sarcastic things about their lives and communities, and then post it on the Internet (or whatever newfangled device they have to distract us from work in year 2045.) And if there’s not a club, then by God I’ll have to start one.

So, c’mon, join now. If you promise to bring two friends, I’ll even throw in an official club hat.