Young, blithe and budgeted marked our time spent in our teens and twenties. We bargain hunted seaside boardwalks, thrift stores and the mall for treasured items that announced “I am.” The cheaper and more lurid the better to underscore and over-share our nonchalance.
Wistful are the days of youth. But perspective is a benefit of aging to be appreciated.
As time passes, budgets grow if the plan goes as planned. Our “I am’s” become more expensive, shouting our sense of arrival. I am here and I am succeeding.
While Jslow went to Bermuda(s) to tackle the summer heat, I went the opposite route during last weekend’s mini heat-wave: I stayed home and played shortstop.
My sunny Sunday outfit: Eyebobs readers, James Perse sweatshirt, Each X Other engineer jeans cut into shorts, Steven Alan plaid shirt tied around waist, Chanel sneakers.
I’d just suffered through eight straight days of fog that buried the western half of the city in gloomy grey gunk, and my whole being ached for sun. Apparently, this outer San Francisco phenomenon is called “Junuary” — you know, January in June, and it really threw me for a loop.
It all starts with the email in my inbox declaring 3rd Grade BEACH PARTY! I know it’s coming — warm weather, exposed body and years of neglect. My kids ask me, “How come you never go swimming with us?” (bad mom, bad mom, bad mom.)
Let me rant about yet another annoying thing about passing fifty — you get email spam like this:
And let me point out that I have no issue with the couple, who look quite fetching – and happy in an fake-ad way. It’s the god awful “SeniorPeopleMeet” issue. Seriously? We’re skipping grades now too? Going straight from “Middle” to “Seniors”?
The next time you can’t find your readers, don’t pound the table with your fist — look through it!
Since we’ve been on the topic of reading glasses and how integral they are to our middle-age life, what can you do if you can’t find yours and you urgently need to read something like the price-tag on those Prada oxfords or how many steps you’ve taken on your FitBit? Not being able to read can be one of the most awful, humbling experiences ever, and to feel this helpless just plain sucks. Nothing like piling one middle-aged malady on top of another — misplacing stuff, and not being able to see what you’ve misplaced.
Ugh.
