(I’ll let you decide which is which.)
Although I have not yet been officially declared brain dead, I’m sure there’s panel being convened somewhere to discuss the issue.
However, it appears that physically I still survive.
I’ve thought for a long time now that getting old was a pretty cool thing. I’ve enjoyed the anonymity and the not giving a flying eff aspect of it. Not having to answer to anybody. Not being inspected for my sexual value as I walk down the street. Dressing as I please. Not much caring what others think. Hearing that the world is going to end in the Next! Screaming! Crisis! and knowing it won’t. Meeting a likable man and not immediately falling into that absurd “will we or won’t we” social dance.
Now I’m seeing the other aspect of getting old and cool is not the word for it — although cold chills apply.
My appetite finally returned yesterday, although the pleasure of fine dining (aka heating up a can of Campbell’s Hearty Bean and Ham) is diminished by spasmodic coughing fits between bites. Or worse, during them.
On the other hand, I’m now back at my high school weight, which has been a casual goal for a while. It was only a few pounds to lose, but they were persistent suckers.
This isn’t the way I’d have chosen to lose them, though.
I’m so hopelessly behind in reading, let alone answering, my email that I’ve given up trying. I can only apologize for not responding — and contemplate why a virtual (and therefore non-existant) mailbox littered with bits and bytes fills me with such dread.
I did ease back into cruising the ‘Net yesterday. Couldn’t handle the news (gods forbid, are we still supposed to feel sorry for those out-of-paycheck TSA gropers and thieves, who even with their supposed hardships make more than their less pervy peers?).
But I may have some thrilling dog-rescue videos for you later.
In the meantime, I’m nerving myself up actually to getting out of bed this morning and perhaps even bathing my sweaty self and washing my sweaty bedclothes. We’ll see how far I progress in these monumental leaps toward health and normal life.
If all goes well, I may even dress and go to the post office to check my mail.
Don’t count on anything so wildly, boldly dramatic as a half-mile trek to the PO, though. Small steps, small steps …
Meanwhile, I’m cheered and carried along by your good wishes.