…trying to look wild and windswept and untamed. Can someone my age still get away with that? Well, hell…why not? DH seems to think so, and I do value his opinion, after all. (LOL) You know, I feel a certain sadness, though, that women at my age fifty or a hundred years ago were old.  They were crones. Now, historically, that was true because they had hard lives, fewer creature comforts than we do today, and of course less access to good dental and medical care. But, my own mother couldn’t have been categorized as having a terribly hard life - she was a nurse, and by the time I was in my teens, she was back to working full time, but she loved her work - and when she was home, my father bent over backwards to accomodate her. But I always remember her looking OLD. She was on the heavy side, and since she was 40 when I was born, she was in her mid-fifties when I was a teenager. She had her hair - which was very thin and wispy - cut short and permed into a strange froth of curl on top, and combed back on the sides. Her hair was naturally a light sandy brown, but she’d begun to go gray, so she had it ALL lightened and dyed this purple-y silver color that was quite in vogue among the “old ladies” of that era. And, at 55, she was most decidedly an “old lady”. I suppose it was the culture of the times…the “Leave it to Beaver” generation where women wore “housedresses” and aprons, but weren’t anywhere near as glamorous as June Cleaver. I remember my mother telling me when I was in my mid-twenties and having my second child that I needed to get my hair cut. It was to my waist, and according to her, “respectable” women kept their hair short and neat. I DID cut it back then, but have since decided to wear it whatever length I choose…who cares about “respectable”, anyway? This is the 21st century. I can wear what I like and have my hair any length I want to have it no matter HOW old I am. (So THERE!) And yet, I do have to say that I don’t - nor will I ever - go to any extremes in trying to stay youthful. No cosmetic surgery, I mean. I like the wrinkles I have. I feel that they reflect character, and that in the final analysis, I’ve earned every one of them. I also remember with some sense of loss the nicely toned body that I had for lo, those many years. Now, I’m satisfied at the thought of being the slim “grande dame” and never mind that my flesh doesn’t cling quite so tightly to my bones anymore. (It doesn’t. If one looks closely, the beginnings of “batwings” can be seen on my poor arms. They haven’t reached the proportions yet where I couldn’t go sleeveless without feeling horribly exposed, but they are most certainly there. So, it may sound strange, but I really and truly like the age I am. I never would have imagined that to be true. I spent so many years of my earlier life married to a man who did nothing but criticize, and as a result, I never thought I looked good or even that I could look good. Now I’m fine with how I look. (Oh, yeah. I’ll be finer with it once I’ve lost this last pesky 18 pounds, but essentially I AM okay with me). My kids are finally grown and all out on their own, and life is pretty stress-free on a day-to-day basis with a few occasional exceptions, but not like it used to be when it felt like we just seemed to go from crisis to crisis. In short, I’m finally enjoying my life - except for my job, which grows more and more intolerable, but I really don’t want to lose that income just yet, so I’m going to try to hang in there for a while longer.

My granddaughter, who is turning 7 at the end of this month was just named “student of the month” at her school. Her name is Morgan, and she’s such a delight. She has my father’s eyes, which makes her even dearer to me.

I’ve eaten properly today. I’m going to have my Weight Watcher’s ice cream sammidge and then tuck myself into bed. I’m sleeping in the guest bedroom. I can’t tolerate DH’s snoring. It’s enough to raise the dead. Seriously. It’s a good thing we don’t live near a cemetery - we’d have a yard full of zombies. I sleep in *our* bed on the weekends, but I can’t be awakened fifteen times over the course of the night and still get up at 5:30 to get ready for work on the weekdays.

Friday Morning

Daisy, our big gray khat whom we adopted a year and a half ago from a shelter seems finally to have decided that the humans she now finds herself living with aren’t half-bad, and now, after a year and a half of stand-offishness, and not caring to be petted, she’s decided she’d like to be, but only on her own terms and typically when I’m at the computer. Like right now. She has no idea how hard it is to both type and pet a khat. AND she’s using that age-old guilt-inducer: she’s purring. You can’t NOT pet a purring khat, can you? So I am typing solely with my right hand (mostly) and it’s a tad difficult.

I wish all of my lovely blogmates a wonderful, fulfilling day at whatever it is you will be doing. I don’t suppose I could convince any of you to move to the Boston area? Hmmmm. <looking out the window> Perhaps not.

Tah,

Z

This blog isn’t about anything at all.

I seem to be rambling. It’s a sign of old age.

G’nite, dear friends.