Food cravings -- we all get them. Initially you experience the "a scoop of Rocky Road sure would taste good" phase. Since you have no Rocky Road in the house you try to put it out of your mind. Treat it as a mere passing thought.
Doing your taxes tonight is a passing thought. Cleaning the fridge is a passing thought. Wanting a scoop of Rocky Road is never a passing thought. It pitches camp in your brain. It WANTS Rocky Road and it wants it NOW. Only the frequent craver knows that the only way to dislodge the thought, free up millions of brain cells and get on with your life is to get the damn Rocky Road.
It doesn't matter what state of undress you're in or how dishevelled you look. PJs don't matter. State of hair and makeup? Secondary. You are on a mission. Throw on a trench, pull on a hat and power walk your Rocky Road deprived self to the nearest market for a pint. Only then will life be good again.
Most of us would go the distance to satisfy a Rocky Road attack, but what if it wasn't chocolate ice cream? What if it was something from another food group entirely? What if it was Brussels sprouts?
Are you still there?
It was the same process, the same intensity and I made my way to the market in search of the mini-cabbages with just as much determination.
A craving is a craving is a craving. And I picked up a pint of Rocky Road while I was there for later -- just in case.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Mystery Medicine
Billions of Chinese people have been doing this for thousands of years. That's what I told myself while the mixture boiled and bubbled steaming up my kitchen. As I stirred the brew, I fully expected an eye of newt to stare back at me. Maybe this is what inspired Shakespeare to write that famous witches -with -cauldron scene. Maybe Shakespeare too had a cough that just wouldn't go away.
After days on a diet of cherry Ricola, hot tea with honey and warm salt water, I gave up on all things Western. Chinese medicine here I come.
This was not completely unfamiliar territory. I lived in Korea for a while and had some success with herbal remedies. When I taught ESL, many Asian students offered to nurse me back to health with syrups -- usually dark brown and smelling like a clothes hamper -- they swore by.
At the herbalist's office there was the examining of the tongue, the taking of the pulse, the asking of the same questions as on a standard medical intake form. I left the shop with several small plastic bags of unfamiliar ingredients that would soon become tea. That and a box of small pills which read "Chinese Natural Herbal Concoction". Let's hear it for truth in advertising!
I recognized orange peels -- and that's where my intellectual skills ended leaving plenty of room for my imagination to take over. Several pieces looked like the ivory paint chips that fell from my bathroom ceiling last month. Others looked like used tongue depressors, mini-mothballs, tree bark and those little whirlybird seeds that fall from trees in the spring. I guessed that the brownish, raisin-like particles were reindeer testicles.
With sweeteners standing by ready to rescue sacrificed taste buds, I took a sip. Surprisingly, the tea was quite yummy. And -- now hear this Western medicine -- the next morning the cough was gone.
Yes, I'm concerned about Chinese imports like everyone else. Just don't mess with my miracle tea.
After days on a diet of cherry Ricola, hot tea with honey and warm salt water, I gave up on all things Western. Chinese medicine here I come.
This was not completely unfamiliar territory. I lived in Korea for a while and had some success with herbal remedies. When I taught ESL, many Asian students offered to nurse me back to health with syrups -- usually dark brown and smelling like a clothes hamper -- they swore by.
At the herbalist's office there was the examining of the tongue, the taking of the pulse, the asking of the same questions as on a standard medical intake form. I left the shop with several small plastic bags of unfamiliar ingredients that would soon become tea. That and a box of small pills which read "Chinese Natural Herbal Concoction". Let's hear it for truth in advertising!
I recognized orange peels -- and that's where my intellectual skills ended leaving plenty of room for my imagination to take over. Several pieces looked like the ivory paint chips that fell from my bathroom ceiling last month. Others looked like used tongue depressors, mini-mothballs, tree bark and those little whirlybird seeds that fall from trees in the spring. I guessed that the brownish, raisin-like particles were reindeer testicles.
With sweeteners standing by ready to rescue sacrificed taste buds, I took a sip. Surprisingly, the tea was quite yummy. And -- now hear this Western medicine -- the next morning the cough was gone.
Yes, I'm concerned about Chinese imports like everyone else. Just don't mess with my miracle tea.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
The Phases of Life
When you're a kid there's a sense of wonder.
Why's the sky blue? What makes thunder?
In adolescence you're all too vexed
By the one track mind that is sex, sex, sex.
In college you form your ideas and voices.
At twenty you ponder an array of life choices.
Then you're living the good life out in society.
Away with the boredom! You crave the variety.
More serious now, a family you launch.
You might even start to develop a paunch.
You know you're no longer an adult who's a fledgling
When you find yourself watching the PBS pledging.
As I get older the wonder's still there,
But now focus shifts to the topic of hair.
That on my head gets thinner and whiter
While the bit 'bove my lip is thicker and brighter.
Though the fuzz on my legs you see less and less,
It's the stuff 'neath my nose that causes the stress.
I bleach and I pluck as much as I'm able,
Still there are days I could pass for Clark Gable.
Why's the sky blue? What makes thunder?
In adolescence you're all too vexed
By the one track mind that is sex, sex, sex.
In college you form your ideas and voices.
At twenty you ponder an array of life choices.
Then you're living the good life out in society.
Away with the boredom! You crave the variety.
More serious now, a family you launch.
You might even start to develop a paunch.
You know you're no longer an adult who's a fledgling
When you find yourself watching the PBS pledging.
As I get older the wonder's still there,
But now focus shifts to the topic of hair.
That on my head gets thinner and whiter
While the bit 'bove my lip is thicker and brighter.
Though the fuzz on my legs you see less and less,
It's the stuff 'neath my nose that causes the stress.
I bleach and I pluck as much as I'm able,
Still there are days I could pass for Clark Gable.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Breaking the Sound Barrier
Look out Chuck Yeager and the rest of you guys brandishing the right stuff. I too broke the sound barrier and I didn't even have a plane. While you were lauded and ticker taped for your achievement, I'd just as soon not anyone know about mine.
I grunted when I stood up this morning. Grunted like the Williams sisters at Wimbledon.
I have been getting up from chairs, benches, sofas and even the floor for years. I've mastered the process. No sound effects were required to get the body into a vertical position. So now that I'm all of 61 my joints come with a sound track?
Grunting shoves you over that audio threshold into seniordom. It's one of those benchmarks on my personal "you know you're getting old when..." list.
Perhaps it was just a one-off, as the Brits say. Here's hoping it won't happen again for another 20 years when my dotage kicks in.
For now I've pressed the mute button.
I grunted when I stood up this morning. Grunted like the Williams sisters at Wimbledon.
I have been getting up from chairs, benches, sofas and even the floor for years. I've mastered the process. No sound effects were required to get the body into a vertical position. So now that I'm all of 61 my joints come with a sound track?
Grunting shoves you over that audio threshold into seniordom. It's one of those benchmarks on my personal "you know you're getting old when..." list.
Perhaps it was just a one-off, as the Brits say. Here's hoping it won't happen again for another 20 years when my dotage kicks in.
For now I've pressed the mute button.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Gravity and "The Girls"
Recently I was asked to join a committee. I'm a member of an organization that promotes lifelong learning -- a purpose I can enthusiastically endorse. But as much as I support the program I had to turn down the offer -- not due to lack of time or interest but because of the committee name.
Honestly -- would you join the Strategic Advisory Group or SAG? SAG!? No organization that caters to people over 50 should use such a loaded acronym. It borders on the unkind.
I am the poster child for sag. Gravity and I are no longer on speaking terms -- not after what it's done to my chest. The "girls" were never really perky but at least they stood at attention. Today they give new meaning to "at ease". My bra is working overtime. There's enough underwire to set off airport security. You could irrigate a cotton field through the shoulder strap gullies.
In college I laughed at a cartoon that showed an elderly gentleman trying to feel up his wife. The caption read something like "they're not up there any more, Harry." Then I thought it was hilarious. Now I see it as prophetic.
SAG? No thanks. I've got that covered. Perhaps there's a spot on the marketing committee instead.
Honestly -- would you join the Strategic Advisory Group or SAG? SAG!? No organization that caters to people over 50 should use such a loaded acronym. It borders on the unkind.
I am the poster child for sag. Gravity and I are no longer on speaking terms -- not after what it's done to my chest. The "girls" were never really perky but at least they stood at attention. Today they give new meaning to "at ease". My bra is working overtime. There's enough underwire to set off airport security. You could irrigate a cotton field through the shoulder strap gullies.
In college I laughed at a cartoon that showed an elderly gentleman trying to feel up his wife. The caption read something like "they're not up there any more, Harry." Then I thought it was hilarious. Now I see it as prophetic.
SAG? No thanks. I've got that covered. Perhaps there's a spot on the marketing committee instead.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
It's Nap Time, America
Remember kindergarten? Remember how, after an intense session of finger painting the teacher fed you graham crackers and milk? Then you'd spread your little blanket and take a nap. Probably the only time in life when napping is condoned and we were too young to appreciate it.
But that might be changing. In his 12 Point Plan for Healthy Aging, Dr. Andrew Weill recommends sufficient rest and ---- napping. And the crowd roars -- but not too loudly because it's nap time, America.
Just a few minutes midday to recharge. A dozing diversion. Horizontal hiatus. Call it what you like. We need to re-set our circadian clocks. America needs a nap.
Other countries embrace the siesta, so why are we a napless society? My guess is the Puritan work ethic that's chiseled into our cultural DNA. Remember the Puritans -- those serious guys with big buckles? Definitely anti-nap.
You probably think you'd feel g-u-i-l-t-y if you took a nap when you should be doing something productive. But that's the point. This is approved napping. Everyone is doing it.
Imagine enjoying a brief span of quiet time to catch those much needed 40 winks. (What does that mean anyway? Are 24 or 65 just as beneficial? And who does the counting?)
I suppose, like with anything else, national napping could get out of hand. There will be some abusers -- those who extend their 10-20 minutes into hours of semi-consciousness. Nappers Anonymous chapters will form to handle them.
Did you know that the first Monday after daylight saving time is National Workplace Napping Day? There's also National Sleep Awareness Week. That's a start, but to really catch on approved napping needs grassroots support, a movement or an organization. How about we form the National Association of Post-Lunch Snoozers (NAPS)? We'll need a logo, t-shirts, bumper stickers and, of course, blankets.
But that might be changing. In his 12 Point Plan for Healthy Aging, Dr. Andrew Weill recommends sufficient rest and ---- napping. And the crowd roars -- but not too loudly because it's nap time, America.
Just a few minutes midday to recharge. A dozing diversion. Horizontal hiatus. Call it what you like. We need to re-set our circadian clocks. America needs a nap.
Other countries embrace the siesta, so why are we a napless society? My guess is the Puritan work ethic that's chiseled into our cultural DNA. Remember the Puritans -- those serious guys with big buckles? Definitely anti-nap.
You probably think you'd feel g-u-i-l-t-y if you took a nap when you should be doing something productive. But that's the point. This is approved napping. Everyone is doing it.
Imagine enjoying a brief span of quiet time to catch those much needed 40 winks. (What does that mean anyway? Are 24 or 65 just as beneficial? And who does the counting?)
I suppose, like with anything else, national napping could get out of hand. There will be some abusers -- those who extend their 10-20 minutes into hours of semi-consciousness. Nappers Anonymous chapters will form to handle them.
Did you know that the first Monday after daylight saving time is National Workplace Napping Day? There's also National Sleep Awareness Week. That's a start, but to really catch on approved napping needs grassroots support, a movement or an organization. How about we form the National Association of Post-Lunch Snoozers (NAPS)? We'll need a logo, t-shirts, bumper stickers and, of course, blankets.
Monday, July 30, 2007
An Overloaded Hard Drive
It's happened again, the thing that I've dreaded
Up from my desk wondering where I was headed.
Where was I going? What was my task?
I just can't remember so don't even ask.
My brain's overloaded with mathematics equations,
Trivia tidbits from long gone occasions.
President's names in alphabet order
The length in miles of the Mexican border.
The piece that I played at piano recital,
One line from some movie -- just the line, not the title.
French tenses of verbs, conjugations in Latin,
A cocktail dress that was hot pink satin.
"Nice to see you again," I stall and I bluff.
From where? What's the name? Don't remember that stuff.
Not senile, Alzheimer's or other such doom,
I just have a feeling my brain's out of room.
All that data in there slows down the synapses
My hard drive needs purging before it collapses.
The brain is like a computer they say,
So where's the delete key hidden away?
Attention Silicon Valley nerds --
With you I'd like to have a few words.
Forget gizmos and gadgets. They've grown to be dull.
Develop a program to sort out my skull.
Nothing painful or evil -- no robots please.
But something to access my data with ease.
Organize, file and maybe a copy.
How do you download your brain to a floppy?
That's your assignment. Call when you're through.
I hope I recall what I asked you to do.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Bless Me Father....
Stories where heroes resolve tough situations by summoning wizards never really interested me. My fascination with Santa, the Easter Bunny and other childhood sprites was short lived. Magic --both the stage show and romantic varieties -- doesn't intrigue me.
I have always been the practical one. The one people look to for the cool head in a panic situation. The one wearing sensible shoes -- a term my mother used for footwear, yet laden with multitudes of midwestern character values.
As I age, the assumption is that I become even more firmly rooted in reality. "The facts, ma'm. Just the facts", as that Dragnet detective used to say. That's why the following confession ranks right up there with the time I had to tell Father Matthew that I let James Becker feel me up at the CYO dance -- embarrassing but necessary. So here goes:
Feeling hungry, I review the contents of my fridge hoping to concoct something edible. My fridge is the place where Tupperware goes to die. So I open the crisper. What a misnomer --there's nothing in that little drawer but a bag of brown liquid that I assume was once mushrooms. I scan the inside door. Several bottles of salad dressing stand at attention, none of which contain enough liquid to dress a salad in more than a g-string.
My brain -- making excuses for my inability to frequent the supermarket -- sends a message to my stomach that I am no longer hungry. I return to the mind-bending crossword puzzle.
Fast forward 30, maybe 40 minutes. I feel peckish. Apparently my stomach didn't actually buy the lie told by my brain mere minutes ago. Where do I head? Back to that very same refrigerator recently dismissed as a disaster area.
Was I expecting a loaves and fishes type miracle? Did those pathetic leftovers somehow morph into fine cuisine? Did someone stock the fridge while I was trying to figure out 12-down? Or worse, am I losing my memory? To cover this culinary dementia, I conjure up the Fridge Fairy. Picture Tinkerbell in fleece. Her super powers make veggies fresh again, raise leftovers from the dead and replenish the food supply.
I know she's not real. Credit me with some sanity. Just a light-hearted indulgance and a much needed release from wearing those blasted sensible shoes all my life.
Now before you pooh-pooh this idea, think of the last time you searched for your keys or glasses. How many times did you go back to the same spot thinking that perhaps you'd find it this time? Now if you had your own Fairy.....
I have always been the practical one. The one people look to for the cool head in a panic situation. The one wearing sensible shoes -- a term my mother used for footwear, yet laden with multitudes of midwestern character values.
As I age, the assumption is that I become even more firmly rooted in reality. "The facts, ma'm. Just the facts", as that Dragnet detective used to say. That's why the following confession ranks right up there with the time I had to tell Father Matthew that I let James Becker feel me up at the CYO dance -- embarrassing but necessary. So here goes:
Feeling hungry, I review the contents of my fridge hoping to concoct something edible. My fridge is the place where Tupperware goes to die. So I open the crisper. What a misnomer --there's nothing in that little drawer but a bag of brown liquid that I assume was once mushrooms. I scan the inside door. Several bottles of salad dressing stand at attention, none of which contain enough liquid to dress a salad in more than a g-string.
My brain -- making excuses for my inability to frequent the supermarket -- sends a message to my stomach that I am no longer hungry. I return to the mind-bending crossword puzzle.
Fast forward 30, maybe 40 minutes. I feel peckish. Apparently my stomach didn't actually buy the lie told by my brain mere minutes ago. Where do I head? Back to that very same refrigerator recently dismissed as a disaster area.
Was I expecting a loaves and fishes type miracle? Did those pathetic leftovers somehow morph into fine cuisine? Did someone stock the fridge while I was trying to figure out 12-down? Or worse, am I losing my memory? To cover this culinary dementia, I conjure up the Fridge Fairy. Picture Tinkerbell in fleece. Her super powers make veggies fresh again, raise leftovers from the dead and replenish the food supply.
I know she's not real. Credit me with some sanity. Just a light-hearted indulgance and a much needed release from wearing those blasted sensible shoes all my life.
Now before you pooh-pooh this idea, think of the last time you searched for your keys or glasses. How many times did you go back to the same spot thinking that perhaps you'd find it this time? Now if you had your own Fairy.....
Sunday, July 8, 2007
The Greatest Thing Since....
"It's the greatest thing since sliced bread". You hear people say that all the time. Frankly, I never got that excited over the pre-cut loaf. Convenient -- yes, but to use it as the standard for all future inventions...?
Now that I'm getting older, I'm more likely to say "it's the greatest thing since the elastic waistband". Now that's an invention!
An article in the July/August 2007 issue of the AARP magazine was about belly fat. Apparently, up until age 40 our hormones control the allocation of fat and keep it away from the belly. Once the estrogen and testosterone decrease the belly is fair game. All those fat cells pack up and migrate to the midriff settling in Spare Tire Town -- kind of an anatomical Grapes of Wrath.
So I'm not mistaken for Tweedledum, I diligently count crunches, speed walk and confess to succombing to the hype of the latest ab busting infomercial. Oh, I wear the same size as a few years ago. Hips and behind haven't widened or spread (well, maybe a tad). The problem lies in buttoning, snapping, zipping.
Long live the elastic waistband! Breathing...bending...eating allowed!
Now that I'm getting older, I'm more likely to say "it's the greatest thing since the elastic waistband". Now that's an invention!
An article in the July/August 2007 issue of the AARP magazine was about belly fat. Apparently, up until age 40 our hormones control the allocation of fat and keep it away from the belly. Once the estrogen and testosterone decrease the belly is fair game. All those fat cells pack up and migrate to the midriff settling in Spare Tire Town -- kind of an anatomical Grapes of Wrath.
So I'm not mistaken for Tweedledum, I diligently count crunches, speed walk and confess to succombing to the hype of the latest ab busting infomercial. Oh, I wear the same size as a few years ago. Hips and behind haven't widened or spread (well, maybe a tad). The problem lies in buttoning, snapping, zipping.
Long live the elastic waistband! Breathing...bending...eating allowed!
Thursday, July 5, 2007
At That In-Between Stage
Remember as a teenager when you weren't supposed to behave like a kid anymore but weren't yet treated as an adult? One day you're told that it's time to put away the Bosco. The next day your request for coffee is denied because you're not old enough. Yet, once you reach 18 the child/adult confusion ends. At 18 the law says you're an adult.
Now as a fledgling 60-something I'm at that in-between stage all over again -- this time without the zits and far less angst. Here we are, millions of Baby Boomers, no longer young but not yet ready or willing to be labelled a senior.
There isn't a year when one legally becomes a senior. AARP reels you into the fold kicking and screaming when you're facing the big 5-0. Movie theaters give discounts at 62 or 65. Well, those are officially stated ages and it's probably not a good example. Usually the kids selling tickets should be home studying for SATs and to them anyone with so much as a strand of gray looks old enough for a discount.
I went to a step class recently and was determined to keep up. I haven't felt so much knee pain since high school. That's when Sister Agathona made me kneel in the corner after she caught me rolling my uniform skirt higher than the mandated, good-girl level. Alright so I overdid it in the step class. I tried an exercise class geared to seniors thinking it was more my speed. While my knees were pain free, I barely broke a sweat. That in-between stage rears its head again.
That certainly is middle age I see in the rear view mirror, but at 61 I'm just barely reaching late afternoon, not the sunset years.
So who are we 60-something Boomers? Fogies? Elderly? Geezers? Gammers (definitely one of my favorite, albeit somewhat obscure, words to use when 'geezer' just won't do)?
Can you honestly use any of these adjectives to describe Mick Jagger, Paul McCartney, Hillary Clinton, Dave Barry, Mikail Baryshnikov or the majority of we 60-ish folk?
We need to coin a new word for we ageing Boomers. One that will carry us through these in-between years -- or at least til we're ready to answer to senior.
Any ideas?
Now as a fledgling 60-something I'm at that in-between stage all over again -- this time without the zits and far less angst. Here we are, millions of Baby Boomers, no longer young but not yet ready or willing to be labelled a senior.
There isn't a year when one legally becomes a senior. AARP reels you into the fold kicking and screaming when you're facing the big 5-0. Movie theaters give discounts at 62 or 65. Well, those are officially stated ages and it's probably not a good example. Usually the kids selling tickets should be home studying for SATs and to them anyone with so much as a strand of gray looks old enough for a discount.
I went to a step class recently and was determined to keep up. I haven't felt so much knee pain since high school. That's when Sister Agathona made me kneel in the corner after she caught me rolling my uniform skirt higher than the mandated, good-girl level. Alright so I overdid it in the step class. I tried an exercise class geared to seniors thinking it was more my speed. While my knees were pain free, I barely broke a sweat. That in-between stage rears its head again.
That certainly is middle age I see in the rear view mirror, but at 61 I'm just barely reaching late afternoon, not the sunset years.
So who are we 60-something Boomers? Fogies? Elderly? Geezers? Gammers (definitely one of my favorite, albeit somewhat obscure, words to use when 'geezer' just won't do)?
Can you honestly use any of these adjectives to describe Mick Jagger, Paul McCartney, Hillary Clinton, Dave Barry, Mikail Baryshnikov or the majority of we 60-ish folk?
We need to coin a new word for we ageing Boomers. One that will carry us through these in-between years -- or at least til we're ready to answer to senior.
Any ideas?
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Ma'm I Am
Thank you, ma'm. May I help you, ma'm? General or senior, ma'm? Have a nice day, ma'm.
I hear it here. I hear it there.
I hear this ma'm said everywhere.
In France around la Tour Eiffel
I'm not addressed as mademoiselle.
In Rome they greet "signora, ciao"
Along the Rhine I am a frau.
Is it the strands of gray or one more crease
That cause the title "Miss" to cease?
Perhaps I exude an air of maturity
Though I'm years away from Social Security.
If ma'm is a sign of etiquette
For that I'm just not ready yet.
Yes, I resist but still find it funny --
I'd rather be called ma'm than honey.
I hear it here. I hear it there.
I hear this ma'm said everywhere.
In France around la Tour Eiffel
I'm not addressed as mademoiselle.
In Rome they greet "signora, ciao"
Along the Rhine I am a frau.
Is it the strands of gray or one more crease
That cause the title "Miss" to cease?
Perhaps I exude an air of maturity
Though I'm years away from Social Security.
If ma'm is a sign of etiquette
For that I'm just not ready yet.
Yes, I resist but still find it funny --
I'd rather be called ma'm than honey.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Yikes! How Did I Get to be 60?
I love birthdays. I believe they should be stretched to birthweeks -- even birthmonths. Just one celebration after another all about YOU. I have remained fairly upbeat marking the rapid passage of time --- that is until last year.
2006 was the year when both numbers changed (again) on that odometer of life. June 18, 2006 I turned 60! Sixty! How did that happen? I belong to that first wave of millions of 1946-born baby boomers who now teeter on 'senior' status. Knowing that others feel my pain offers little consolation. I'm 60!
2006 was the year when both numbers changed (again) on that odometer of life. June 18, 2006 I turned 60! Sixty! How did that happen? I belong to that first wave of millions of 1946-born baby boomers who now teeter on 'senior' status. Knowing that others feel my pain offers little consolation. I'm 60!
Thirty barely created a tic on the age-o-meter. At forty I threw one of the best bashes ever. For my 50th I was living and working abroad having an adventure.
I had to be cajoled and coaxed into 60. I crossed days off the calendar with all the enthusiam of a convict marking chits on his cell wall. I was haunted by visions of Aunt Clara who was 60 when I was a child. Her face had more wrinkles than a damp t-shirt forgotten in the clothes dryer. The chance that some genes skip a generation was all that kept me from buying -- and applying -- massive quantities of industrial strength anti-aging creams. I did, however, add the number of a botox specialist to my speed dial. That way, in case I panicked, I wouldn't waste time looking one up in the Yellow Pages.
I usually use birthdays as a time to evaluate what I've done the past year and set goals -- albeit non-binding ones -- for the coming months. Like those famous movie critics, sometimes I give the year a thumbs up, sometimes a thumbs down. Whether this annual process is therapeutic or masochistic has yet to be decided.
So if I do this every year, you can only imagine what happens for those birthdays ending in a zero. That's when the year just passed is mushed in with the entire decade. So I wasn't just turning 60 -- I was torturing myself with my "decade in review" process. There was a moment (perhaps I was reviewing year number 54 or maybe 56) when all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball under my coffee table and commune with the dust bunnies.
But this year was different. Two days ago I turned 61. Note the absence of an exclamation point. Two days ago I skipped the good year/bad year process. Didn't even think about it. Perhaps it was because I was sitting on the tarmac at O'Hare in an overheated plane for three hours waiting to take off and my growing impatience overrode everything else.
Or maybe I'm just fine with being 61.
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