Is my glass half empty or half full? Sometimes the glass is just too blamed big…or like in my case it has a slow leak.
Thinking about that leak, I am organizing a protest for the flagrant insults I see spreading around the country with regard to senior citizen status. First of all, I don’t like being called a senior. I was a senior a half century ago at West Point High School and there’s no relationship whatsoever.
We can hardly expect the generation that brought us Woodstock and The Beetles to go quietly into the night. The Baby Boomers broke all the rules in our youth so dare we expect less as we age?
I have decided to change my approach to this aging thing. After all, we’re all doing it from the day we’re born to the day we decide to jump out of a plane on our 80th birthday – hopefully wearing a parachute!
Today I went to Wal-Mart for my weekly visit. On a whim I wandered into the clothing section to see if the sweatpants and shirts might be on sale. Since we’re near the end of the harshest winter in my memory, my uniform (aka my sweat wardrobe) is permanently tattooed with chili stains and puppy throw up. (Feeding the left over chili to pets is never a good idea.)
Indeed, the sweats were on sale. (I’ve been watching a lot of British television on Netflix and have adopted a slight British accent and say things like “indeed” when agreeing with
Boy, the weather is really jerking us around, isn’t it? February is mean that way – cold, damp and desolate one day, then sunny and warm the next.
A group of my “over 50” cronies were discussing our fascinating lives over coffee the other day.
Two had just returned from a trip to Italy, one had been cross-country skiing in Wyoming, and the oldest one in the group had just placed first in his age bracket in a half marathon.
Me? I had nothing. My big adventure was a