%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| PROMPT November 17th You have been invited to a posh dinner party hosted by one of the wealthiest people in your small town. When you arrive, your host does not greet you, and the butler informs you they have been missing since last night. A quick search by all the party goers finds him/her dead. Their body is in a small clearing in the woods behind the mansion. Being a modern day Nancy Drew/Joe Hardy type of person, you begin your own investigation. What do you find that leads you to the murderer. Who is the murderer? How was the host killed? Whew, the finding of my hostess' body is rather unfortunate for her anyway. I breathe a secret sigh of relief and stifle an urge to cheer. This is not the time, or the place. I may not be in the same social circle as she is, er, was, but I was raised with a modicum of good manners. All that fretting about which fork to lift to my mouth and wracking my mind to come up with suitable dinner conversation is now a moot point. I've been spared the opportunity to embarrass myself, but at the expense of another's life. I don't suppose this is a subject covered in an etiquette handbook. I didn't know Widow Snooty at all and no one was more surprised to receive an invitation than moi, yet I don't believe she'd have enjoyed being the spectacle she now is splayed on the muddied ground behind her mansion. It seems so undignified to be gawped at. Death doesn't care about the niceties at all. Her lavish attention to hair, make-up, clothing and accessories is apparent, but I doubt the murderer, or the specter of death even noticed. The great gaping hole in her chest was certainly difficult to ignore. The stunned expression forever etched on her visage made an indelible impression, too. Maybe that could be blamed on an embossed invitation stuffed into her mouth. Who knows? I recognized the silver lettering as a twin to the one I'd balled into my pocket at the start of the impromptu search. This could be evidence and if so, I could prove my innocence. One of the guests had silenced his / her hostess. I had not been the first to discover Snooty. I ran towards the high-pitched screams of another partygoer and in my haste I stumbled over the likely murder weapon, a bloody umbrella. Never had I ever seen such a large spike atop an umbrella. Had it been designed to serve as a means of protection from more than a downpour? And hold on a minute, who brought an umbrella on such a lovely, cloud-free evening? Before long uniformed officials arrived to set up a perimeter of yellow tape and I found myself jostled against a small crowd of gasping, murmuring onlookers. This had not turned out to be a chance to peak behind the brocade draperies so to speak, or was it? If this was how the wealthy treated each other they could keep it. I'd barely set foot into the great hall and now I'd been swept up into a murder enquiry. I decided no one would miss my absence and I hurried back to the mansion slipping in through the opened door. In the hush, I wandered from room to room searching for I knew not what. An 'ahem' startled me and I turned to see the rather stern-looking butler appraising me. On the upstairs wall adjacent to the sweeping staircase I peered at a portrait of two young girls. I blinked at the butler, arched my brows and nodded at the painting in its gilded frame. "Yes," he intoned, " that is Madam and her twin sister. Quite the uncanny resemblance don't you agree?" My head bobbed and something, a specific something on the canvas, caught my eye. "Is that Madam Snooty's custom umbrella? I believe I've seen it just a short time ago." The butler squinted and shook his head. "I've never noticed such an item in this house." Both of us startled as a crash of breaking glass echoed from a closed room down the corridor. Without hesitation we loped towards it. I followed the houseman as he shoved open the door. I didn't mind that he entered the room ahead of me, somebody had to be first. We stopped short and stared. A familiar woman stood before us with an armful of clothing. On the bed lay a half-filled suitcase. A shattered lamp littered the floor. Bureau drawers sprawled open. The woman flung her items as she gaped at us wild-eyed. Specks of what I suspected to be dried blood freckled her face and a bright red smear stained her dress. "Who are you?" she demanded. "Well, I don't believe any of us are Widow Snooty, do you?" With a stomp of her foot and a toss of her hair, my number one suspect shrieked, "I could 've been, I should've been!" |
| PROMPT November 16th This one will cover one of my favorite subjects, Food. Do you follow a certain regimen/diet when it comes to eating? Other than something you might be allergic to, are there any foods you avoid or limit yourself to? What's your favorite meal to prepare. Share your recipe if you like. (I have a 'killer' chocolate recipe!) Do I follow a regimen when it comes to eating? No, not at all. I'm on the best diet of all, the see-food diet. When I see food I eat it. Pretty well anything edible appeals to me and nothing causes me distress with allergies, or indigestion. I believe I am blessed with a cast iron stomach which I attribute to years of eating my father's cooking. I've endured a lifetime of training for the Gastric Olympics. He never met a spice he did not like to enhance his meals. That being said, of course I have favourites. Sometimes, I believe I am secretly descended from Italian stock. I have not completely abandoned this theory and stranger things are within the realm of possibility. Family legend teases that my mother had been sedated for my birth and upon awakening demanded to see her newborn. When the nurse handed me to her, my mother took one look and disowned me. Seeing my black hair and chubby cheeks, Mom decided I was an Italian ringer substituted for her baby. My parents were blondes and my colouring had to be that of a foreign child. The hospital also was within an Italian neighbourhood. After searching the birth records that showed I was the only newborn that particular day, my doubting parent accepted me. I dunno. I really do love Italian cuisine. I can honestly state that I like food, any food. I still experience cravings for my father's apple dumplings one of his signature dishes that did not feature copious amounts of onions. To this day I cannot prepare a whole ham without seeing him stud an entire ham with cloves. When I mix flour and shortening to create his signature Father B. biscuits, I remember he preferred to feel the dough with his hands and forgo the use of a spoon. I do not recall him measuring his ingredients. Dad embraced the pinch of this and a dab of that. I suppose I learned to eat with the tried and true philosophy of take it, or leave it. No one enjoyed preferential treatment with specialized meals. I never dreamed of complaining, but then again what would I have changed? I believe cooking and baking should be attempted with a grain of salt, patience and a sense of humour. It's not always foolproof. It is a process. Here then is one of my recipes. ASPIRIN CAKE INGREDIENTS: Flour ( plus extra ), baking powder, salt, sugar (plus extra ), eggs (plus extra), shortening INSTRUCTIONS: Preheat oven to 350 degrees fahrenheit. Admonish eager girls to not open the oven door every thirty seconds. Remind them not to test for heat by touching the oven racks. Remove permission slips, the Safe Guide manual, Safe Guide forms, the Emergency Response Plan, the first aid kit, Health forms, and two squiggling Girl Guides from the kitchen table. Have one Guide measure out two cups of flour. Direct the girl who knocked the first girl's elbow to wipe up the spilled flour. The first Guide must now re-measure fresh flour. Emphasize and demonstrate the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon. Oversee the addition of baking powder and salt. Tell the girl who could not resist a taste of this mixture to get herself a glass of water. Instruct yet another girl to measure out a cup of sugar. Brush sugar that missed the bowl into the bowl. Supervise the messy addition of shortening and admonish girls from wiping their hands on their pants. Ask another eager baker to crack open an egg. Hand her a piece of paper towel to wipe egg from floor and remember to add "over the bowl" next time. Suggest she use a teaspoon to scoop out eggshells and not her bare fingers. Caution about over zealous stirring and stifle flour-cloud coughing. Watch with bated breath as Guides pour, drip and spoon most of the cake batter into a cake pan. Be prepared for bowl to be swiped clean with many fingers because girls forgot to use their spoons. Once the cake is finally and safely in the oven organize a clean-up. Guides awaiting a fresh cake will happily clean the kitchen and wash dishes. Hand the wettest Guide a mop to sop up dish water from floor. Bear in mind that every kitchen towel will be pressed into service and a few will be tossed willy-nilly. When the oven timer screeches remove cake from oven. Forgo icing, or frosting. The cake is still hot anyway and the bakers have reached the end of their patience. Baking and cleaning have piqued their appetites. Serve atop serviettes. No one wishes to wash more dishes. When you arrive back home, take an aspirin, smile, and begin planning next week's hands'-on meeting. |
| PROMPT November 15th You and your two best friends are going on a month-long road trip. Where are you going? What three items must be in your luggage for this trip to be a great experience for you. Nancy my 'bestest' pal and the other Nancy also my 'bestest' pal plus moi have chosen to partake of a momentous road trip. Sure, we may imbibe a few cocktails and a few bottles of wine, but we are not interested in breweries, or vineyards. Our taste buds fancy an eating / sampling tour, or two, or three. We wish to put our teeth into our adventure so to speak. Our motto: have sweet tooth will travel. Ugly Covid and all its restrictions have put a halt to our ultimate dream of visiting Switzerland for its chocolate. Where else can a gal or three with a passion for chocolate travel? We dreamed of sending sticky, smeared post cards back home. We'd imagined ourselves daintily perched upon outdoor cafe chairs sipping bois du chocolat and peering from behind our shaded eyewear at the vivant locals. Now we have adapted, adjusted, made other plans. Thanks to an evening of Google research, we've plotted a route that will take us down the eastern seaboard and over to Texas after a few days of pretending to be in Europe by way of Montreal. We will create a chocolate tour and dedicate it to the explorers that set forth to establish the Spice routes of days past. If anyone can do this, we can. We shall sniff out the chocolate. We shall drive and drive with chocolate as our reward. This heavenly concoction / confection shall be our guiding star. Before we ventured too far and in need of something to fortify us and whet our palates, we veered off to Niagara Falls to grab a quick travel bag of things chocolate. Yes, this is not strictly speaking the direct route to Montreal, but we had urges, okay? Sated, we waved farewell to Ontario and motored to Montreal just over the border in our neighbour, Quebec. Thank goodness we'd decided to be sensible and packed comfy walking shoes. In this marvelous city, we'd committed ourselves to two different walking tours which we had the foresight to schedule with a rest and recovery day in between. Day one found us partaking of a four and a half hour chocolate-tasting and walking tour. Hobbling, wobbling and teetering on heels would not have been a pretty sight as we gobbled sampled the offered treats. I may have lost count, sugar does cast a spell, but I believe I enjoyed nine sweets on this glorious day. I also recall sipping decadent cocoa drinks. On our third day here, we embarked upon another four and a half hour walking tour of Chinatown. Oh, the savoury smells tickled our noses and the delicacies satisfied our exotic whims. Promising to return in the future, Nancy, Nancy and I bid Montreal au revoir and praised each other for escaping the worst of our calorie expedition. We agreed it had been a most fortuitous idea to leave our belts at home. As is our habit, we nattered nonstop in the car and before we could complain of the cramped quarters we arrived at our next stop, Brooklyn, New York. Once more we set out to tour the premises of master chocolatiers and indulge in their delectable offerings. I believe there may be several selfies as evidence of our attentive devotion. We all packed our cell phones with their indispensable cameras. With the additional walking, we felt calories could not possibly catch us. Our foray found us in Hershey, Pennsylvania next. Now this is a town devoted to all things chocolate! It is created as a theme-type park, Chocolate World. Throngs of chocolate lovers tour factories to witness the creation of this treasure, to sample it, to create their own chocolate bars, and to amuse themselves on chocolate rides. Because we were unabashed Canadian enthusiasts we purchased chocolate wear, or as the bubbly cashier corrected us, "merch." This is why we never leave home without a credit card. Impulse purchases come at a cost. The car's trunk is sagging a bit lower now with all of the loot we've stashed there. So far, our spirits have not sagged, and our sugar levels have not spiked. The euphoria of chocolate sustains us. In Savannah, we ooh and aah on another tour fortified by coffee. So, in a stately square we espy the infamous bench where Gump utters his profound words, "Life is like a box of chocolates." Many of the heads on our tour bus seemed to nod in agreement. We hit the open road and wandered over to Dallas. We were ever so pleased that this state boasts more than barbecue and cowboys. Yep, we found another chocolate tour. Be still our beating hearts. So many people share our fascination with chocolate. It's so sweet. Here, Nancy, Nancy and I discover Mexican chocolate. It's infused with cinnamon, sometimes nutmeg, or chilies. This is an intriguing combination. Chocolate chicken? Chocolate chili? My taste buds tingled. During our return drive back home, one of the Nancy-s wondered if we could volunteer as chocolate ambassadors somewhere. I must admit, it is food for thought .We have a taste for it. |
| PROMPT November 14th A Mystery Genre prompt tonight. You are researching your genealogy and find that ancestors from different generations and different countries made visits to the same remote place. Tell us about this remote place. Why were your ancestors going there? In 1903, Joseph had endured a crossing of the Atlantic Ocean to leave his life in Ireland behind. Though he feared the rough swells and the endless seasickness would kill him, he landed in Montreal with the clothes on his back and a determination to make something of himself. Saying farewell to the ship he said a quick prayer he would never have to board her again. Without one ounce of regret he set out for Shawville, Quebec on a journey that saw him walk and hitch rides in passing wagons. Once amongst his cousins, Joe settled in to work with the local blacksmith. Customers coming in regaled him with tales of riches to be had if a man were strong and willing to relocate. Before too many months had passed, he boarded a train for British Columbia and set out for a cross-Canada trek. Now it was 1904, the perfect time to begin anew. As the train rattled along, Joe swayed in his seat and dared to dream. He smiled as he thought of his destination's name, Mission. What an apt name for his new adventure. Hours blended into days, and Joe became disoriented. To add to his shock, three gruff man brandished weapons one day and demanded the passengers' money. He remembered the conductor shouting they were near Silverdale when asked at the end of a gun. Not wishing to be shot, Joe handed over the few dollars in his pocket. The one thief, more silver-haired than his partners, tipped his hat and actually said thank you. As if anyone had willingly forfeited their monies. It may not have been a fortune, but it was all he had and he'd worked hard for it. With his skills, he'd never worried he would find employment amongst the logging and mining communities. He'd packed light. Joe never forgot the terror he'd felt aboard that train. Unarmed, he'd hesitated to raise a ruckus and irk the bandits. In Mission, he volunteered to join the search party for the thieves. For weeks he slogged through thick forests and climbed rocky ravines without so much as a glimpse of the wanted men. In time, Joe accepted he would never recover his meagre stake and he settled into his new life. Years later, he returned to Quebec and his tale of witnessing a train robbery earned him a few drinks from fascinated listeners. Fast forward several decades and Nathaniel a Canadian descendant of Joe decided to recreate his ancestor's western trek. He'd heard the stories over and over. Were they myth, or legend? Could he see for himself where the bandits had jumped from a train and disappeared? Where had they absconded? Had they buried their loot as they fled? Could it still exist under layers of leaves and branches? The idea of trekking about in terrain that had not changed noticeably excited Nathaniel. Would he find the robbers' stash that rumours insisted had never been located? Would he stumble upon a bleak skeleton guarding that ill-gained treasure? Would he discover anything at all? Could he coax the locals to share their memories of the great train robbery of 1910? Did anyone aid and abet the men? Perhaps one of the seniors would be a thief hiding in plain sight. Now that would make for a great story. |
| November 13th prompt: In your world, all citizens are temporarily neutered at birth. When you want to become a parent, you must prove to the government that you'll be suitable caretakers and providers before you are allowed to procreate. How do you prove to the government that you'll be a good caretaker/parent? Well, I'm not much of a whiteboard presenter. A klutz such as myself should never wield a pointer, or move amongst potential obstacles. For every one's sake I do not have charts , or graphs. I do not have a slide-show presentation either. Coloured pictures may appear wonderful, but they are merely flashy and lack substance. I will present my appeal to be a potential parent as if I were mounting my court case before a judge. My lack of physical grace not withstanding, sincerity would be my strong suit. I would prove my suitability with a series of character references. Was I always a parent-in-training? For years, I chose to be a babysitter, a child-minder, a childcare worker. I enjoy the company of kids. They fuel my creativity. They approach life with a joie de vivre. Their exuberance is refreshing and contagious. For many years, I volunteered with youth groups accompanying them camping and on various field trips. I never lost anyone. Everyone survived with all of their digits attached. My sanity did not suffer permanent damage either. To put forth my intentions to become a minder, a teacher, a nurturer of my own offspring I will present the testimonies of all the parents and children I have been privileged to know. Surely they recognize my heartfelt desire and will welcome me to the elite sanctum of parenthood. Perhaps I could offer to attend a child-rearing boot camp? Of course, I'd have to endure countless days of no sleep. I'd have to acclimatize to wailing, mewling, whimpering, screeching even if I were the one emitting such a ruckus. My olfactory senses and my stomach would have to adjust to a variety of odours most foul. I'd prove my prowess and skill at diaper-changing a squirming infant by doing so one-handed and blind-folded with another baby clutching at my ankles. After a stint in a sensory deprivation tank listening to non-stop nursery rhymes, I'd emerge unscathed and capable of conversing with another adult. Granted I may stumble and stub a few toes, but I would traverse an obstacle course consisting of Lego, building blocks, Little People figures, strewn baby bottles, bakeware from the kitchen, and prove my stamina. In short, I'd be prepared for anything. Let the de-neutering begin! |
| PROMPT November 11th A reminder I could say to myself before I’m tempted to respond to anger with anger, to fear with fear, to negativity with negativity is... This too shall pass. I need to stop, take a calming breath and consider if my reply, my input, my reaction is necessary. Often people explode and express overwhelming emotion as they experience something. They could be in shock and in the throes of a sudden incident. Their anger, or fear, or negativity is not always directed at me. It is not a personal assault. They are having difficulty processing something very real and raw. I need not exacerbate the situation. The extreme emotion can roll of my back. Often when we're angry we need to vent, blow off steam. During this we may not be in a receptive state of mind and we may not hear anything other than reciprocated anger. We recognize what we are projecting when it returns as an echo. Further anger amplifies ours. Rage feeds off rage. I could remind myself to walk away. Do not engage. Do not take the bait. Do I need, or want the drama? Years ago, I worked in a highway-side restaurant that catered to a clientele of mainly travelers. One late afternoon a family walked in and sat at a table. The parents strapped their toddler son into a high chair and then attempted to shush him as they perused the menu. The boy screeched louder and louder. He pounded and kicked the table. Anything offered to him he threw. His grandparents tried speaking to him.That poor kid had just been released from the confines of a car seat where he'd been tightly belted for who knows how long. Now he was similarly confined. Everywhere he looked there were strangers. The restaurant was a new environment. He'd had enough. He did not have the skills to verbally and reasonably express his frustration, his irritation, his objections. He expressed his displeasure in the only manner he knew. I admired what the frazzled father did next. He did not respond with anger. He did not shout. He did not strike. He pulled his wailing son from the chair and carried him outside where he deposited the boy on the ground. Dad stood nearby as the boy screamed and kicked the stone wall. He permitted his child to vent and he removed the temper tantrum from the diningroom. He just stood and waited out the storm. When the child had spent himself, Dad hugged him and spoke quietly to him. They returned to their table hand in hand where this young man climbed back up into the high chair and accepted a much needed drink. He'd expunged his anger. Perhaps that patient parent believed this too shall pass. |
| PROMPT November 11th You are desperate to use the bathroom. But, you share this with several others. It's down the hall (waaaay down the hall), and it's cold despite the heat being set to the 'normal' temperature. Being an older person, your legs and ability to hold it ain't what it used to be. How do you handle this dire situation? I gasp and shiver as my feet hit the floor. I rub my eyes as I lurch toward the door. The bladder that woke me a moment before signals a battered floodgate strained to its core. The kegels I crunched to strengthen my muscle wave a red hot flag to hurry my hustle. My knees bawk, groan, creak, irked by the kerfuffle. They spasm and jerk, each step a slow, stiff shuffle. The walker frame squeaks as I wince, huff and puff. I push-propel myself past obstacle stuff. My new knee squawks at this arduous trek rough, but my bully bladder demands it, blunt, gruff. I can almost taste it, it pounds in my ears. Those two cups of tea haunt me, dribbles I fear. My midnight mission, frantic foray is clear. Do not delay, imminent release is near. At long last the once distant bathroom beckons. blessed relief is at hand, few more seconds. A blur breezes past and a shrill voice sprechens, "You're not quite there yet, I have time I reckon." ( sprechen is German for speak and it rhymes with beckon and reckon... 'spreckens' ) |
| PROMPT November 10th Your neighbor’s hay crop is ready to harvest. Everyone in their family is sick and their Combine is broken. How do you respond to this situation? Combine? I'm only familiar with combine as a verb for bakers; combine the flour and sugar. I'm thinking of the act of mixing, stirring. Wait, am I being called to a different type of action? Am I expected to leap into help mode? Should I stir and rouse myself from my comfy easy chair? Even if the piece of farm machinery mentioned above was fully operational, it would be rendered useless by my lack of experience. How do I control it? Do I point and steer? I suppose it doesn't have voice control? Does Siri, or Google, or Alexa assist when summoned? This is where I mention that I hail from a long line of immigrant farmers. Of course, I never had the pleasure of meeting them, or visiting their spreads. A span of at least a hundred years made that impossible. Could it possibly be a genetics thing? Maybe I inherited the farming ability? Could the skill of handling heavy machinery be pulsating through my veins? Should I hope the knowing voices of my long past kin guide me? I must confess that I mix up hay and straw. One is for bedding and one is for eating. I've always wondered why some growers bundle their grain into varying shapes. I've driven by fields that hold large, round bales that I've dubbed Muffets after the cereal and other acreages that prefer square bales. Some farmers store their grain in barns and others wrap their harvest in white plastic that they then leave outside. I took a wee, brief Google break to learn a bit more. Okay, the hay is considered fodder and the straw is for bedding. Wowzers, those large, round rolls of hay could possibly weigh 1,500 pounds. I'm fairly certain I would not be of any help whatsoever to lift that. I do not own a tractor, but I do own a pick-up truck I drive. I realize it cannot harvest the hay, but it sure could carry a few bales for transport. I believe I'd need to rally the troops if I intend to help my neighbour. Just up the road, a community of Mennonites have purchased several farms. I admire their work ethic and family values. They are experienced farmers and they succeed because they toil together. I shall ask them to assist with the hay harvest. In return, I will offer to aid them in kind, a you-pat-my -back- I'll-pat-your-back. When they are feeling better, my neighbours will be grateful to return the favour, too. I will provide a lunch for this army of harvesters. That is something I can manage. If I ask nicely, perhaps one of them will teach me how to drive a combine. It could be a valuable skill in the future. |
| PROMPT November 9th You are having a very realistic dream. In this dream, you are approaching a castle. What unusual reason do you have to be at this castle? What do you say to the two guards standing outside it to gain entrance? Guards: "Halt! Who goes there?" Me: "Huh? You can see quite clearly that it's me. Let me in." Guards:"Do you have a castle pass?" Me : "What's that? Is it a ticket, or something? Did I miss the ticket agent?" Guards:"None shall pass." Me: "None like no one? I'm a somebody I assure you. Announce my presence, you'll see." Guards:"There's a list, a privileged list." Me:"Am I dreaming? I did not waltz over here for the sake of my health. I was summoned." Guards:"You couldn't have been. The Royal Summoner was called away." Me: "He spoke to me a day ago." Guards: "He's a mute." Me:"Oh, that's unfortunate. Someone requested I make an appearance. Is there a secondary Summoner? Maybe a Sub-Summoner?" Guards:"Well, there's Bob." Me:" Great, What does Bob do?" Guards:"Bob's a floater. I think today he's ringing the bell." Me: "Up in the turret? I'm here to check the bats in the belfry. Can you get in touch with him?" Guards:" Nope. Rapunzel's away, too." Me:"Rapunzel? The one with the long hair? What's she got to do with Bob?" Guards:" He's trapped up there. Rapunzel pulled him up." Me:" Do you not have a ladder? Isn't there one lying about since the last storming?" Guards:"Storming of this castle is prohibited. The local union frowns upon such unnecessary action. Basically, we stand here, look stern and deny entry." Me:"This doesn't make any sense." Guards:"We're just extras in your dream. We don't know what to tell you. Maybe you meant to visit another castle?" Me:"That could be a possibility. My vehicle needs a new windshield. Before I fell asleep I was leafing through the yellow pages of the phone book. I believe there's a Castle Auto Glass. That doesn't explain the bats though. Guards:" Don't make us say it lady. Your dream, your crazy thoughts. Come on, you know. Bats in the belfry?" |
| PROMPT November 8th What would you have to start doing now so that in 10 years you feel like you just had the best decade of your life? Is this a self-reflection exercise? What do I see myself doing in ten years? Should I adopt some healthier habits? Should I contemplate a makeover? First of all, I have no preconceived expectation that the next decade of my life will come to pass, or that it might prove to be the best time of my life. Like anything involving the day-to-day nothing is for certain. If I give up partaking of all items baked such as cakes, cookies, and muffins what will I have achieved? Will I have shed weight? To what end? Do I really wish to be an image-obsessed senior citizen pining to regain her youthful figure? I am no longer a shadow of my former self. Neither am I morbidly obese . Sure I cannot hope to participate in a marathon and remain unscathed, but then I never did, nor did I ever wish to do so. I have never had a burning desire to scale a mountain, or throw myself from a tall structure. I am blessedly healthy. My diet has not harmed me and my size/build has not been a burden. Why would I alter this? This then will not be a pursuit pour moi. I have no complaints re the other decades of my life thus far. Over the years, I've enjoyed many a highlight. I've earned every wrinkle, laugh line and grey hair and they were inevitable anyway. During the close to two decades my offspring and I co-habited I weathered once in a lifetime events, triumphs, milestones, etc. They had a place in my life and they can never be repeated. For the immediate past twenty years, I experienced getting to know my kids as adults and liking their company. We've travelled together. We've welcomed new members to our family. I've become Nanna to three splendid grandgiggles and nothing whatsoever can surpass that. To survive another decade I need to relax and savour all the moments. I need to be present where the action happens. I need to breathe. All of my decades have been the best. |
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