Why I Will Always Be Able To See

The old man was running his fingers through my hair last night. He thought he was being affectionate. I thought he was being annoying.

Not only did he run his fingers through my hair, he "fluffed" it. Finally, he gave my hair a gentle pat. "There," he said, "It looks perfect."

I could tell by the feeling of hair standing upright that it wasn't perfect, and waves of panic washed over me as I thought, "What if someday I go blind and the old man is left in charge of my hair and clothing?"

Of all the big, scary things in the world to be afraid of, you wouldn't think that being coifed and dressed by the old man would be in the top 10.

On my list, it even beats out public speaking.

Life's Simple Pleasures

Adventure Girl has rediscovered one of life's simple pleasures--making out. Big car, radio tuned to favorite FM station, dark parking lot, and being with the old man equals lots of fun.

Speaking of the old man, he told me wants the song "Leather and Lace" at our 50th wedding anniversary party. I want "Son Of A Preacher Man." Another of life's simple pleasures--planning to be together at least 27 more years.

Queen For A (Number Of) Day(s)

I marked the passing of another year during the last week. First, I made myself Queen for the day of my birth. Then, as the birthday was on a Friday, I decided to make myself Queen for the weekend. However, as my age now ends with a "9," I decided it might be best to be Queen for the rest of the year to mark the last year in my current decade. Realizing that the next birthday would be the beginning of a new decade in my life, I decided that perhaps I should be Queen for the next two years.

Being Queen means that I tell the old man that he has to do everything I say for the next two years and then telling him what to do. For some reason, he doesn't think I should be Queen.

I think I'm going to have to call on Adventure Girl. She will have ways of convincing the old man of the wisdom of living under my rule.

Till The Calf Comes Home

I am beginning to wonder how long it takes before I stop listening for the front door to open and my son to come bounding in. It still feels like he is just away for a very long weekend.

Sunday evenings especially feel weird. There is no one to pester about whether they have clean clothes or homework finished. There's an inner alarm clock that rings, saying "It's Sunday evening. Do you have your child's schedule for the week so you can plan your life around it?" Apparently, when it goes off, I still hit "snooze" instead of "off."

I will probably start getting the hang of my new life about the time his winter break starts.