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
I guess I’m having a midlife crisis – okay hush you skeptics. I fully plan to live to the ripe old age of 124 which means I’m just barely middle aged. For some time now I’ve been struggling with something to which I can’t assign a name.
I gave myself a facial but it didn’t make me feel any better. I just felt like an old broad with mud on her face.
My old friend, the late Ada Harvey, called the condition
For some time now I’ve had the sense that something important was missing. I checked and all my underwear is in place, my tires have been rotated and bills are paid up for another month. What could it be?
I changed my toothpaste, bought some bubble bath and toyed with the idea of quitting my job and moving to Nepal. But then I remembered I am retired and have no job. Does anyone know where Nepal is?
I went to bed at 8 p.m. on New Years Eve thinking how horrified I would have been 40 years ago to greet the new year without all-night merry-making sometimes bordering on the insane.
I was catching up with a friend at the supermarket this week and she asked what my new book is going to be about. I said it will offer ideas on how to approach the aging process from an angle other than just letting it sweep my generation away without a fight.
“Aging,” she almost spat in disgust. “I’m against it,” she said unequivocally as if discussing the H1n1 swine flu. She was obviously in peak condition and had just come from Pilates class. This girl wasn’t going lightly and I liked her spunk.