I'M A B.O.F. WHO KNEW?

Early morning swim complete, I rushed home, grabbed my iPad and began my search.  B.O.F.?  Today was my first exposure to the term and although it was explained to me, I felt a need for further clarification.  "BoF" popped up on my screen. "Business of Fashion" it read.  Think not, I giggled, glancing down at my scruffy, chlorine-smelling jeans.  And then there was "Bof" (spelled differently). No luck! That is French for "whatever" as in:

Tom: Hey, Harry, wanna' shoot some pucks.

Harry: Bof!

Nope, I muttered.  No B.O.F.  The meaning? you ask. Well, according to one of my fellow swimmers, her grandson reported that old retired people are collectively referred to as B.O.F.'s - Boring Old Farts.  Who knew? Not moi and on behalf of my fellow B.O.F's, I am offended. Don't anger a B.O.F., sonny boy, unless you are prepared to handle what you unleash.

So hey kid, here's the thing.  After, you provide me with your operational definition of "old", we can discuss " boring". Nah! Who needs to wait; I'll cover 'boring' now.

By 9:00 am this morning, most of my BOFy friends were in the pool, at the gym, cycling, walking our local trails or volunteering their time.  Had you rolled out of bed yet? Just askin'.  Coffee or lunch with my fellow BOFs is most likely too noisey for you. We are prone to talking and laughing. Verbal communication, I think is the term. Not cool, I guess, when our time could be better spent in silence, head down, texting pals on our iPhones.  Just sayin'.

My thoughts automatically turn to BOFy people we have met on our travels.  In 2007 on the Amalfi Coast, just after I had retired into BOFdom, we met a true BOF specimen with wrinkled face and snow white hair. Imagine! Probably truly boring and uninteresting, not deserving of any time. Right, kid?  And all he had ever accomplished in his life was developing the laser beam. Hmmm? Know what that is? Just askin'.

On our recent Rhone trip, we met a BOF who would have really put you off.  White-haired, he slowly walked with a cane, frequently dragging his right foot. Oh, and his right arm had limited use, too. Having suffered a stroke last year, Chris, the BOF in question, nolonger able to fly (oh, yes, he was once a pilot) decided to do something about his bucket list.  Travelling alone, yes alone, from Brisbane, Australia, he visited Singapore and Dubai, then took two European River cruises, the Rhine and the Rhone. When we disembarked from our cruise he was on his way to London, England. White-haired and older.  Must have been boring. Right?

You know what, kid?  As I pen this blog, I am becoming prouder with each word I write of being a BOF!  I have laughed, cried, sung, danced, worked, cursed, contributed and loved for a lifetime.  I have earned the distinction BOF.  Now that I am nolonger Daphne Lockett, Broker of Record, you can refer to me a Daphne Lockett, B.O.F.  Got that, kid!?!  Now, if you will excuse me, I'm off for a drink with my fellow BOFs.