Free Best Staged Plans by Claire Cook

said. “They’re all you need to make new friends.”
    “I kept waiting for her to sing the Girl Scout theme song,” I said as we walked away. “You know that one about make new friends and keep the old, la la la la and something about gold.”
    “Sorry,” Greg said. “The Girl Scouts wouldn’t let me in. Too much testosterone.”
    “That was my first thought when I met you, too,” I said. “But I adjusted.”
    I checked out the other couples as we milled around. I thought we looked younger than most of them, but maybe they all thought they looked younger, too.
    “Whoa,” I whispered to Greg. “Would you look at those mom jeans.”
    Greg flicked his head. “On her?”
    I held up one hand to block the finger I was pointing with. “No, on him .”
    “Is that a toupee?” Greg said.
    I followed his gaze. “Ya think?”
    Hundreds of booths had been set up along little fake avenues marked by green street signs winding around a big central stage area.
    We stopped to read some signs, which were printed in oversize Boomer-friendly letters.
    “Cute,” I said. “We’re at the intersection of Penny Lane and Abbey Road.”
    Greg opened up the show map. “I’d say we want to head in the direction of Bleecker Street.”
    “Ooh, ooh. Who sang that?”
    “Simon and Garfunkel.” Greg ran his finger over the map. “ ‘Positively Fourth Street’ was Dylan, ‘Cyprus Avenue’ was Van Morrison. Let’s see . . . ‘Blue Avenue’ was Roy Orbison. ‘Love Street’—”
    “The Doors,” I said. “ ‘Cotton Avenue’ was Joni Mitchell and ‘Main Street Saturday Night’ was Carole King. Boy, they’re really pushing the Boomer button, aren’t they? I wonder if you get a Timeless Tunes of the 1960s and 1970s CD when you put a deposit down on a house.”
    “They probably give you an eight-track tape,” Greg said.
    We took a right on Abbey Road. “Lots of whiteheads here,” Greg said as we threaded our way through the crowds.
    I decided not to point out that salt was winning out over pepper in Greg’s hair. It looked good on him, and I hated that I couldn’t just let mine go, too. But while I believed in gray hair politically, I had to admit it was the rare woman who didn’t look older as a graynette. I’d been dyeing my hair for so long I couldn’t even remember how long ago I’d started anymore. A part of me really, really wanted to know what my hair would look like au naturel. Would I have my paternal grandmother’s gorgeous white waves? And what if Mother Nature had graced me with salt-and-pepper hair so fabulous it would outshine the color I paid for every five weeks? But somehow I just didn’t think I’d turn out to be one of those rare women. My drab gray locks would simply make me look washed-out, invisible, old .
    We stopped at a huge poster of a mountain-backed lake surrounded by lush greenery and a walking trail. Cute little docks dotted the front of every adorable house. It looked a bit Stepford Wife-ish, but it’s not like I’d have to wear a ruffled apron or anything. And I was more than ready to trade the charm of our 1890s Victorian for walk-in closets and dual vanities.
    I reached for a brochure.
    “How close is the nearest airport?” Greg asked the guy behind the booth.
    The guy reached for a brochure, too. “About four hours, but it says right here it’s an easy ride.”
    Greg looped an arm around my shoulders. “Is there a major fitness center?”
    The guy kept reading. “It’s in the planning stages, but it looks like there’s plenty of fishing in the meantime.”
    Greg leaned in for the kill. “Trader Joe’s?”
    “Don’t count on it,” the guy said. He looked over his shoulder. “Don’t hold your breath for any Starbucks either.”
    We circled the conference room in silence. “You totally set me up,” I finally said.
    Greg put his arm around my shoulders again. “No, I didn’t. Come on, we can just catch the Walk Till You Drop seminar.”
    We slid into our