Growing old and doing it right
It’s the last day of the year 2018, and I’m still here, all 140 pounds of me! I wonder, could I, like mom, break 150?
It’s the last day of the year 2018, and I’m still here, all 140 pounds of me! I wonder, could I, like mom, break 150?
All day in pajamas was a luxury I hadn’t indulged myself in a long time. Having awakened with the beginnings of a sore throat and a headache, I didn’t feel like going anywhere.
I like being emotionally ready for life’s major transitions.
At a lunch last week, all gussied up to look pretty, we got a bit philosophical. One sighed, “Oh, if only one could look into the future—the blunders we would avoid!”
“When the theater is empty, filled with echoes of my voice; when the orchestra is silent and all you hear is noise; When my glory days are over and the lights no longer shine, will the people still remember that the voice they heard was mine?”
I’ve never lived a balanced life. I excel in one or two things and flunk the rest. Never have I done anything in a straight line. Why are old people always wearing socks? Because the extremities—feet and hands— are always feeling cold due to poor circulation.
One of the rewards of getting old is becoming free of inhibitions and fears, of truly becoming oneself, as it were—which can sometimes be a frightening prospect for the rest of the world.
I’m told that, by some kind of symbiosis, some couples at some point begin to look alike, but nobody warned me about any tendency toward combo dressing.
“Good morning yesterday. You wake up and time has slipped away.” Time is our friend and our enemy all at once. It is said that it heals; that time flies; that time waits for no one; that with its passage, all resentments are appeased, all enmities forgotten.
I am turning 47 today. Once upon a time, 47 seemed ancient. My mother was widowed at 47. I think of that now and I appreciate even more how difficult it must have been for her back then.
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