It’s official. I’m a senior citizen – 65 years old. How the hell did that happen?
Evidently, I’m not the only senior so let’s talk practicalities. In my head, I’m still in my forties – capable in everyday life, adept at certain skills, good at my job, no major health problems, plenty of energy. In reality, I retired early, quitting in a blaze of glory, as in “talk to the hand.” Now I get to kvetch about whatever I want. Becoming a senior citizen is one of those things, not because I just got there but because of the attitude of anyone younger than 40-ish. Here are some things to ponder. Continue reading
Yesterday afternoon, Toronto experienced a major storm comparable to hurricanes we experienced while living in Houston. We never expected to see that type of destruction here. It’s a different world we’re living in now.
Leggings: spandex, lycra, latex, pleather, jeggings (stretch denim); shiny, printed, bedazzled. This trend has been bugging me for a while. I’m referring to the fashion craze that has become ubiquitous. It started benignly enough. Ballet dancers in color-coordinated tutus and tights; leotards to keep you warm on blustery winter days; part of a school uniform (our Catholic high school required flesh-
tone leotards, not a good look). They’re now being worn by everyone, it seems – on the street, in the work-place, in malls, at the theater; young or old, tall or short, plus-size or emaciated. Even men at the gym and on the street can be seen in “meggings” so we can see all their junk! These are leggings for men, in case you weren’t sure.
Toronto drivers are wackadoodle! That’s the official clinical term. For the record, I’m an “assertive” driver but nowhere near the level of lunacy around here. I learned to drive in Montreal, which is known for being fast and furious. When I was 15, my dad took me for driving lessons in his giant Chrysler, letting me circle around the lake at the summer cottage. As soon as I was 16, I signed up for lessons and got my license. Around the same time, Dad bought Mom a Toyota Corona. She didn’t like driving so guess who got to use that car. I drove to my college campus, around the hood, to the bars with my friends. Yes, it was a reckless time and the freedom was exhilarating. When I moved to Toronto in 1977, I noticed I drove more aggressively than Torontonians, which is probably why I got a few speeding tickets.
One week later and I’m recovering nicely, I think. I can almost feel my nose again!
The before and after pictures:
Picture the scene: late winter Saturday evening. The company of good friends. Delicious Italian dinner. A breathtaking balletic move where I face-plant on the sidewalk! Splat! My husband and friends picking me up off the pavement. I’m dazed, have no idea what just happened, bleeding profusely from my nose but I’m worried about my new coat. Did I get any blood on it, I ask? They’re whisking me along, back to their apartment so they can assess the damage. I’m giggling and mumbling, asking them why am I bleeding?
Building a blog is a bigger pain in the ass than I imagined it would be. Some years ago, a friend and I put together a BlogSpot blog for our book group. It was a bit finicky to customize but it was manageable. WordPress claims their “five-step checklist will get you set up and ready to publish” and “the process is easy to follow whether you are 20 years old or 60 years old.” Maybe that’s the problem! I’m not exactly 60 anymore, just a little past that inconceivable life milestone. Continue reading