So you read that title and some of you are now quoting the rest of TS Elliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and the rest of you are probably worried about if you need to stage an intervention for my coffee problem. Either group of you are good folks and I’m glad to have you. But if you don’t know The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, feel free to go give it a read. Don’t worry, I’ll just have another cup of coffee while you’re gone.
There, wasn’t that a simply divine poem? And no, I don’t have it memorized. I’m not that sort of soul. But I also don’t think that makes a body terribly impressive aside from being able to perform at boring cocktail parties. And heaven knows, I can “perform” at any cocktail party with or without Elliot’s mastery. Continue reading
Today is less shiny version of itself. It isn’t a bad day, it just isn’t a sparkling day that catches my breath and my attention. It might have a lot to do with the weather and it might have a lot to do with worries that I carry with me – scars of a different stripe, so to speak.
And yet it isn’t a bad day. Of course, it’s only 10:39 am and I am still sipping my second cup of coffee. So there are hours ahead that might turn this day into a shiny sparkly, or a dismal dung heap. Life is one big stay tuned after another.
But one thing is clear. I am missing people and moments and things that have been part of my life and are no more. Continue reading
It seems like these days my whole world is hard to decipher. Literally, I can’t hardly make out street signs anymore. I guess it’s time to see the eye doctor again. Of course, as often as my regular doctor dropped some variety of “at your age” I’m not too keen to go see my Doctor Payne. (I’m not making that up, btw.) Last time I was there he brought up “readers” — this aging thing isn’t for sissies, I tell ya.
I’m actually fairly chill about needing reading glasses because it’s just part of life. The other signs that are so hard to read, on the other hand, are making me far from chill.
I’ve written before about being mistaken as my kids’ grandmother instead of mother. When it’s a kid that does it, I don’t get mad. After all, I seem to recall as a high school sophomore thinking the college-aged kids must be really mature and have their life all planned out as I served them post-parting-hangover food. Obviously, one’s own age and experiences plays a role in such perceptions.
An older gentleman who had a “grandpa” like status in my childhood had two sayings he was fond of: “Hair and brains don’t mix” and “Age ain’t nothin’ but mind over matter; if you don’t mind, it don’t matter.” Yes, he was bald as a cue-ball and a very fun-loving young-at-heart kind of soul. He may have missed a few lessons on grammar and proper language, but he was spot-on about the role of context and perspective.
Have you ever wondered if part of human evolution has been to make us more extreme? Or has technology simply made it seem that way? It seems like more and more often I read, hear, or somehow experience extreme reactions to even the most mundane things. Of course, it may be that my Gen X “meh” is just showing. After all, it seems ludicrous to expend so much energy on some of this stuff.
Take Comic Sans for example. People seem to largely have feelings about this font. And their feelings tend to run mighty big. “LOVE IT!” some scream in the style of Wheezy from DragonTales. Others scream just as loudly, “Burn it with the fire of a thousand suns!” like the grumblers they are. The whole thing leads me to say, “It’s a font folks.”
Around my house, some variation of “A family that plays together stays together” is bandied about frequently. Of course, the verb changes as needed (some favorites are: farts, reads, washes) but the general refrain remains. I hope it’s true, by the way. I think it is, but I suppose I’ll have to get back to you in about forty years or so. But for now, it seems to be a truism, at least for my family.
And we do play well together. Board games, card games, dominoes, video games…we are a family that often plays. And last night Mister Soandso and I played one of our “oldies but goodies” that began way back in our dating days of college.
Last fall when I dragged my sagging hiney to the eye doctor, I fully expected to be prescribed a pair of reading glasses. Or, to put it another way, I entered the building and wailed, “My eyes are broke, my eyes are broke!” Instead, my contacts prescription moved a bit closer to the “oh my gods you are visually impaired!” and I missed out on getting a pair of glasses hanging around my neck on a beaded chain.
Now I know, I should be rejoicing in this last gasp of youthfulness that my still-unadorned neck gives me. But I can’t. Because I’d totally rock that “reading glasses as an accessory” look more than what I’ve got going on right now.
Because what I’ve got now are…wrinkles.