My back hurts this morning. It didn't hurt until Jazz, the big red-black cat who mostly lives elsewhere, plunked himself on my lap, mostly obscuring the NYT Sunday puzzle I was dabbling at. A weight fell on my shoulders. "Just old age" says my tan, fit, 30-something doc, prancing in on twinkling ballet flats, tossing her blonde main, smiling without care for what will wrinkle. I do like her, just don't like the message.
Last night the mate and I watched back to back episodes of 2 and 1/2 Men. And laughed. We'd had a couple glasses of wine and some sharp cheddar but still. . . Our other big evening is when our local PBS runs As Time Goes By and Keeping Up Appearances in tandem. Naturally, we only confess this addiction to fellow geezers, thus avoiding being told to "Get a Life!"
If I had to choose one word to describe the aging process? "Discouraging!"
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