Save? Whatever for? The ticking of my own body clock tells me that my future is playing right now, and that spending, not saving, is what makes perfect sense. Free from responsibilities except to myself, it’s time to throw caution to the wind and make my remaining time worth it.
Last February, I spent my 77th birthday in the ICU of the Asian Hospital, stricken with attacks of asthma and pneumonia, and worst, exacerbated by my fibrillating heartbeat. I felt like my lungs had frozen like a concrete slab.
I don’t know what it is about us, but we seem to have the knack for turning a perfectly good thing into the worst that it can be, and not, perhaps, for any lack of good intentions, either.
Happy Mother’s Day. It’s that day of the year again, and here we are walking proud as punch, taking bows we probably don’t deserve. I think we are entitled to this one day, right? Just for today, let me bask gloriously, unashamed, in the effusive protestations of love and devotion from my children. Go on, mommies, you do the same.
My column last April 21, titled “Writing for my target audience,” dealt with the relevance of content, with the interest of my defined audience, psychographics and all.
Every week, my challenge is to find a theme that my target audience can relate to. I go for the high involvement of my readers when they read my column. I choose themes with a sense of originality.
I was curious to find my own place among all the sorts of “Writers’ Wives” described by author and literary critic Malcolm Bradbury in his piece “The Spouse in the House.”
There’s a new gal in the tech-savvy executive suites in California who’s pitching for the old hackneyed game of feminism. She is Facebook’s boss, Sheryl Sandberg, and she wants to change the balance of management in the corporate world.
If Dad had had a say in the matter, he’d not have died on April 10, 2010—or he would not have died at all. As young as 70, he had made it clear to me, his first child, that dying was not in his plans, but that he might be open to the idea by his 80th, the age his brother Tuting, older than him by four years, would himself go.
It is a big mistake to assume that people of age have all the answers. Nothing could be further from the truth. Maybe wrinkles give us a look of authority. Perhaps it’s our attitude. Let’s face it; some of us strut around like infallible sages. But don’t let that fool you. Many of us are as insecure as teenagers with acne.
What happened? It is, I guess, the critical question of the age. Looking in the mirror, I’m brought close to despair. When I last looked, I thought I was getting on relatively fine, all things considered. Surely I couldn’t have gone this far so quickly—or did I look seriously enough?
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