Dressing up

There are many online sales for women's clothing at this time of the year. I've been perusing the sales and seeing all sorts of work clothes I'd like to buy. The problem, of course, is that I'm retired and haven't worked outside the home in 9 years.  

I also almost never go anywhere I'd be required to wear nice clothes, especially a dress, and dresses are what I yearn for. I have dresses in my closet that are totally out of style, and a "little" tight. I'm going to get rid of them. What the heck am I hanging on to them for? If I don't get rid of them soon, the only people who will want them will be costumer's for high school plays.

This summer I'll be going to a family wedding that will require me to wear at least one dress, maybe two. I'm excited about buying the perfect dress for my old lady body. 

I want a dress that looks good on me. You know what I mean. You can try on 5 dresses, and all fit so awful you want to cry. Then that 6th dress is a revelation. It's perfect, and you feel like a million dollars wearing it.  Online ordering is easy, but it doesn't give you the chance to try on 6 dresses, one after another. OMG, I think I'm going have to go clothes shopping at an actual store! 

I remember going to a wedding years ago where my sister-in-law's gray haired mother wore a red dress. She look great in it. I took her picture and told her I'd never seen her look more beautiful, and I sincerely meant it. The dress was simple, flattering, and RED. Old ladies should wear red clothes, don't you think? It's a kick-ass, powerful color. 

Here's that picture of her, wasn't she gorgeous? I want a dress just like that.  

I remember when my hair was brown

I looked in the mirror this morning when I woke up, and suddenly remembered when my hair was brown. It is gray now, of course. I like the gray, the lightness of it, the way it softens my aging face, and especially how little maintenance it requires.  But the brown hair used to deliver a bit of contrast and drama to my looks.  

Those brown haired days are over. I can compensate for the loss of drama, certainly. Being dramatic is my superpower, when I can tamp it down and not scare people away. Contrast, however, is another story.  Lipstick might work, but sheesh. Why would I bother unless I'm going out? My husband might be amused, IF he noticed. Blush? Nah. Too Miss Havisham like.  

Although...  With my gray hair being so long, I could definitely dress up like Miss Havisham next Halloween. I would just have to locate a cheap and shabby wedding dress. Ah, but she's such a downer. Surely there's a better gray haired, drama queen role model?  Know of any?

Martitia Hunt as Miss Havisham

What the heck?

For cryin' out loud, it happened again! 

I was out on a bike ride with my husband. He was way ahead of me, as per usual. I was huffing and puffing trying to catch up with him. Then a young couple on fast bikes passed me on my left. As they raced around me, the woman yelled to me "You are SO cute!!"  

WTH? Apparently I'm going to have to learn to live with this cute/adorable thing. This better not mean I will have to stop dancing at weddings or drinking martinis at downtown bars. Will doing all sorts of normal adult things put me at risk of standing out as "cute" now? I will be completely honest with you. It is making me a little self conscious.

I find it interesting that no one yells things like that out to my husband. He wears a pork pie hat when he rides. He also has yellow and green streamers flowing out of each end of his bike's handle bars, as if he were 6 years old. I have repeatedly told him those streamers are ridiculous, but he doesn't care. He actually IS the cutest thing you've ever seen, but strangers don't seem to feel they can yell inappropriate personal comments out to him.

Well, I have decided I will NOT give up biking just because other people are overcome by my elderly charms. I'm a chubby, gray haired baby boomer and I'm super damn cute. I also have an adorable bike. Get out of my way. I'm nearsighted.

Hers and His

If you've got it

I found a new hair stylist to cut my hair.  She is my daughter's stylist and I like her very much.  She does a good job, charges reasonable fees, and has purple hair.  She also has real artwork by real artists on her walls. It makes me happy just being in her salon, looking at all the colors. Unlike the chrome on white walk-in salons I've been going since I've been in Florida, this seems comfortable, edgy, and welcoming.

She told my daughter that she thought I was adorable. Adorable... I'm not sure I know what that means. It is not the first time I've been described that way by a young woman in recent years (i.e., since I got old). The day of my retirement party I wore leggings, a silky tunic top, and an asymmetrical light sweater. When I asked my younger colleague if I looked ridiculous, she said "No, I think you look adorable." That did not fill me with confidence, but I chose not to care. The party went on as planned.

The hateful old hag who lives deep inside me wants to look for ageism everywhere. She wants to disdain this as a backhanded compliment. The Good Colette, however, is thrilled and wonders how I can make being adorable work for me.  I mean if you've got it, flaunt it - right?

Any ideas?

Bone Tired

Yes, I am bone tired. I am back from the family wedding that warranted my new haircut. I had a great time, filled with family, old friends, and a ridiculous amount of fun. I also had ice cream twice, as well as wedding cake. Wine flowed. Sinful abandon abounded.

Now that I am home, I find myself exhausted. I did nothing yesterday, and I may do nothing again today. I'm trying to figure out if this is a physical reaction or an emotional one? It is likely a combination of the two. I refuse to admit that I am simply aging and have less energy. Oh, Hell no!

In the meantime, my nephew's wife is having a baby. She is having a hard time and a long labor. I wish we were still in Indiana so I could be sitting vigil in the hospital with my Baby Sister. Saturday she married off her youngest child. A few days later her oldest provides her first grandchild.

If sonograms can be trusted, today we add another heroine to the family saga AND Baby Sister and Mikey become grandparents! My nephew and niece-in-law's lives will change forever. Everyone's life will be enhanced when this baby arrives. I may be bone tired, but I am shaken (not stirred) by these glorious events.

Today I will be on the couch reading, napping, and resting my weary bones. Perhaps I'll get my mojo back after this stubborn baby girl is finally born.

On passing for normal

I'm going to a family wedding this weekend. I got my haircut so I could pass as normal. Aaack, the pressure to conform. How I hate it. 

My hair has been rather long for awhile - way longer than I should probably wear it. However, I don't like going to the hairstylist. For me it is akin to going to the dentist, just another thing I must endure from time to time.

The last time I got my hair cut was September 2017. You can imagine how long my hair was this morning, before it all came off.  Long enough to pull back in a ponytail, or messy bun.  I like the idea of older women having long hair and pulling it back. I have seen many women of a certain age looking lovely, elegant and artsy with long gray hair. I love that look. Unfortunately, I can't seem to pull it off.  If I grew a few inches taller and lost a half a million pounds (or got my neck "done") it might work.  But that just doesn't seem to happen.   

I don't have another wedding to go to until December. That means I don't have to get my hair cut again until the end of November.  Yay.

uuuh, what?

I apologize for how sporadic my posts have been. We've had a lot of visitors, which has been wonderful. It is the end of the school year so there have been plays and kindergarten moving up ceremonies, and the like.  As the Florida primary approaches (August 28, so late) I am busier than ever with coordinating candidate FB Live Q&A's on my beloved secret group.  We are on fire, and some like it hot. I know I do.

I sat down with the sole purpose of writing a blog about something specific.  After writing the first paragraph, I have completely forgotten what I wanted to say.  It was gonna be good, too!  Sheesh.

I can muster up a photo, though.  Will be back in a few days with something of substance.  I'm almost sure of it.

palm fronds and fruit

The Venus of Willendorf in Blue Jeans

My husband and I dug up and divided Louisiana Irises this morning.  I was gloriously filthy by the time we were done. The sunscreen I slathered on my face was smeared with dirt and sand. Yes, sand. That is what is REALLY supposed to be on the ground here, sand.  Demon developers came along and dumped dirt upon this land. Then they set about to destroy the primeval beauty of Florida with endless housing developments and soulless gated communities. But I digress. Different post.

Starting again: My blue jeans were covered with dirt and mud. What to do? I simply turned on the hose and sprayed myself down with water. Easy peasy. I'm getting too old to struggle trying to finesse these housewifery things. Jeans dirty? Stand outside and hose 'em down.

After both my showers (...) I went in to check my social media pages. I recently joined a FB group called Crones of Anarchy. Hilarious name, but the site leaves much to be desired before it could truly represent anarchistic crones. I know a few. They could eat these pretenders, baked in a pie. 

Synchronicity being what it is, I found this post on the Crones of Anarchy page:

Stop wearing jeans?  As the song goes, "That'll be the day-ay-ay, when I die!"

Martini Glasses

I am in love with martini glasses and I'm not ashamed to admit it. If they weren't so small, I would drink every liquid I consume out of one. I could use a bigger one, but the small martini glasses are the ones that I admire. Visually, they are nearly perfect. They are elegant to hold, easy to sip from, and make me feel like I am misbehaving. That's always a great feeling, right? Trust me when I say it is especially potent after one has reached a certain age. 

Actually, I like all bar glasses and tools. I once owned a vintage glass shaker that one of my sisters bought for me at an antique store. It was the embodiment of 1950's cool. The glass shaker had measurements marked off in red and black. It was topped by a battered metal top and required a separate strainer to pour the cocktail through into the glass. Of course, I broke it. Now I use a stainless steel shaker that I also love.  I won't break this one. 

Yeah, I drink pink, girly drinks.  So what?

My Sweet Grandma

My paternal grandmother was born in 1905 on a farm in Pickett County, Tennessee. She came from a family with roots in Colonial Virginia. They were part of the great migration of settlers who came through the Cumberland Gap into Tennessee and Kentucky in the late 1700's and early 1800's, when that part of the country was first opened to white settlers. When she died, I lost a direct link to a way of life that no longer exists. Grandma was one of the last of her kind: a sweet, simple woman born into a southern mountain culture with roots extending deep into our pioneer past. 

Her later years spent living in a northern industrial city did little to change her essential character, shaped growing up in the hills of Northeastern Tennessee. She had a big heart filled to the brim with love of God and family. She was the archetypal old-fashioned grandmother: kindly, innocent, loving, and accepting.

Grandpa noticed Grandma at a church dance both attended in nearby Wayne County, Kentucky, where my Grandpa lived. One day after that fateful encounter he decided to ride his horse across the state line to where Grandma’s family lived in Northeastern Tennessee. Grandma did not really know my grandfather at the time, and she certainly was not expecting him to visit. When he arrived she was not at home, so her brother rode off to find her. Grandma said she was mortified that he had come to her house, but pleased nonetheless. Not long after that visit, Grandpa talked her into eloping. They escaped on horseback and were married in the middle of the road by the preacher in December 1923. Grandma was a naive and sheltered 18 year old. Grandma’s wedding kiss was her first. She said she had no idea about sex. She got wide eyed and then laughed in her modest, grandma way when she told me that.

Her mother was angry and cried when she found out that Grandma had run off to get married. I would have cried, too.

Next time I will share a letter Grandma wrote to my daughter (her great-granddaughter) in 1981, telling her about what life was like when she (Grandma) was a young girl. 

Here is a photo of my grandparents taken in 1924 when my grandmother was pregnant with my father.

Health caring, at least

I'm reasonably good about taking care of myself.  I exercise, eat well, and go to all the required doctors (and dentist) for all the annual exams. I do this in spite of the fact that, like many others, I absolutely hate going to the doctor.

I have this "not very well thought out" belief that if I go to a doctor, they WILL find something wrong that needs to be fixed. It's their job, for crying out loud. I know this is ridiculous. But since it is a belief (i.e., emotion based) I don't feel inclined to defend it as an idea (i.e., logic based).

Consequently, I was not surprised when my dermatologist found a basal cell carcinoma on my face. It has been there for a few years. My previous dermatologist pooh pooh'd it. I tried someone new this time. She biopsied and sent it off to the lab. A week later, she cut it out. Then I had the indignity of spending another week with 4 stitches between my nose and my lip on the right side. The swelling pushed my nose up on one side, and my top lip hung down over the bottom in the opposite direction. She also froze off 4 actinic keratosis on other areas of my face. I looked lovely.

Now I'm in the market for a big floppy hat. Perhaps one like Sally Rayburn wore on Bloodlines? That might be big enough to hide me from my enemy, the relentless *^$@! sun.

The only problem is that, unlike Sissy, I am not a skinny little person. I am a chubby little person. Consequently, a hat like this will likely make me look like my totem animal, the turtle. As one gets older, life seems to become a series of indignities. I'm getting used to it.

Sissy Spacek as Sally Rayburn in Bloodlines on Netflix

Turtle Musings

The blogger am recently commented on my turtle masthead. She is an artist and a women of power. When she speaks of images, I pay attention. 

This photo represents a creature with fears and anxieties, but who pokes her head out of her shell from time to time with great hope and with as much energy as she can muster. She is small and seemingly insignificant. She is slow, but she is steady. Despite being restrained by a giant, she is curious and takes a chance by coming out of her shell to see what is going on. Who knows where that small act of courage might take her? 

I came late to blogland. I started writing in 2012, when I went to help my daughter for a few weeks after the birth of her son. I blogged to share the experience with my large extended family. They probably didn't read it.

Many of the original posts have long since been deleted because they revealed too much about me. I retreated back into my shell. I let my writing slide when I went back home and returned to work.

As I prepared to retire in 2013, I started blogging again. This blog became my lifeline as I adjusted to a new and considerably less productive life. This is where I think out loud.

I hope you have noticed the other turtle on my page. She lives on the bottom. She is swimming in full glory. If the little, tentative turtle on the top of my page is where I started, then the big one at the bottom is the one I hope someday to become. 

Some flounder, but this isn't fan mail.

Here are some end of the year musings if you can stand me yammering on:

We all know that kind of person, the one who means well but falls short. No doubt we all ARE that kind of person, imperfect and floundering as we are. I thought more highly of myself before I retired. Now I have time to think, remember, and analyze my actions in depth. There are many things I regret having said or done. Some things I did because I fell short of kindness. Other things I did because I just did not realize, did not consider, how my actions would affect another. Sometimes I was just plain foolish.

I can forgive myself for those things fairly easily because I know I was not trying to be mean. I am imperfect. I will try harder. I just wish I could apologize to the zillions of people who suffered because of my imperfection. Interestingly, as I begin to forgive myself for being less than perfect, I find I can begin the process of forgiving others who fell short with me. Except for the occasional psychopath, we all live and learn.

Still, the ego-driven transgressions are the worst, and the hardest for me to come to terms with. How could I have been so self-centered? All these years I thought I was trying to be good. Instead, I look back and realize all too often I was trying to make myself "look" good. There are casual things I have said or done because I thought I was better, smarter, or was just trying to dominate the conversation with me, me, me.

I am NOT referring to blog posts, by the way.  Blogging is the absolute right forum for talking about oneself. It is a place for self-exploration, expression, humor, sharing, and grief. I'm good with my blog being about me. My real-life actions are what I feel a bit oppressed by.

A twisted tree still grows, just not straight

Turning 65

I turned 65 recently. Over the past few months I have drawn up a will, signed up for Medicare, re-balanced my retirement investments, and bought dental insurance (finally). I worked long and hard building a reasonable life for myself and my family. The building part of my life is over and it seems like the external part of my life is as "in place" as it is going to get. Now that I am 65 I want to change my focus. I want to take care of my internal self. I have the time, that's for sure. I believe I have the energy, too. I just need to change my attitude. Where there is fear, I need to cultivate strength. Call me naive, but I think it might be as simple as that.

Maiden, Mother, and Crone

I recently read a review for The Lightning Tree, a book by Emily Woof. The last sentence of the review said "...she succeeds in conveying the 'infinity of moments' that make up a lifetime."

Well, THAT scared the ever lovin' crap outta of me! I know it was meant to do otherwise. I realize the reviewer was reaching towards his/her best truth. In fact, it was a good sentence. However, I wonder if the concept of "a lifetime" is flexible, depending on your age?

I am going to tell you my theory on all this and (be forewarned) I will generalize like crazy. None of it will be new or insightful. Like on Battlestar Galactica, this has all happened before and it will happen again. Here goes.

When you are young a lifetime seems mostly ahead of you. The idea of building a life is formidable, but also exciting. I like to think time is meant to be filled with joy and wonder. The young still seem to know that. Youth is about hope, anticipation, and energy. You learn about yourself and so much more. If the young tend to romanticize the future, it is their right. Youth is a dangerous, wonderful, adventurous stage.

Middle age is when you might consider your accomplishments and bask in your strength, or vice versa. You've probably had your ass kicked a time or two. In middle age people are a bit more savvy. A lifetime is no longer an idea, it has become a concrete reality. Middle age is when you finally figure out the mechanics, the process of living a life. At this point a person is usually sustained by responsibilities, duties, and love. Middle aged people are busy, busy, busy. It can be a stable, fulfilling time in a life. 

Older people know they are living on borrowed time. They realize there is an end to all this. If you are lucky enough to retire you eventually find yourself freed from routine distractions. Old age can be messy, fraught with physical limitations, health issues, money worries, and unresolved fears. Oh yeah, and sometimes you leak. However, your time is your own.

I am not really "old" yet, but I am no longer middle aged by any stretch of the imagination. As I age, I begin to think old age has more in common with youth than with middle age because time has that lovely transcendent quality I was too busy to notice in middle age. Now I have time, once again, to experience the moment with eyes wide open. Old age is a glorious and terrifying time of life. It depends on the person to balance that conflict. It is a struggle, I'll tell you that.

So when I read a sentence like "...she succeeds in conveying 'the infinity of moments' that make up a lifetime" I am not thinking, "Oh isn't that a beautiful thought?" Nor am I thinking "Hmmm, I'll have to remember that one when I have a few moments to reflect."  I am thinking "Holy Shit! A lifetime has a lot of moments to live through, but they are definitely not infinite."  

Yep, winter is coming.

Counting Calories: 7 weeks

I have been counting calories for 7 weeks and I have lost 10 pounds.  As I heard once in a Weight Watchers meeting, if you hold up two 5 pound bags of potatoes you get an idea of how much 10 pounds weigh. If only the weight I lost equaled the mass of those bags of potatoes. Then I could be done with this counting calories thing. 

10 down and only 35 more to go...  Aaack.  Considering how averse I am to actually dieting and how much I LOVE food (and, okay, wine), I figure it might take me a whole year to lose 20 more pounds. That means it may take me up to two years to reach my final goal weight. I am actually good with that scenario. Slow and steady wins the race, right? Of course, the longer I do this the better chance I have of making healthier eating habits become permanent. 

Don't worry! I am not trying to be thin. I never have been thin, and at 65 thinness is not something I aspire to. That ship has sailed! I am 5'2" and if I reach my goal weight I will be at the absolute tippy top of the healthy BMI for my height. Tippy top is good enough for me. I want to be strong, healthy, and energetic so I can keep up with my grandchildren.

I want to be able to jump up and down and act a fool when our granddaughter grows up and wins an academy award. That's a long term goal.

The little guy, N, expects grandma and grandpa to play tag with him for crying out loud. And he runs like the wind. My immediate goal is to be able to catch that little stinker. I want to win the game.

Still, if losing weight starts to make my neck look any worse then all bets are off.

See what I mean?  Like the wind

The Time

Oh gee, where DOES the time go? And where does it come FROM, for that matter? These are the thoughts I have in retirement.

It is a helluva thing, Time. Closing in on 65, I figure I've had a lot of it. I hope to have more, of course. However, if something happened to end my time I would go out knowing that I have had a long and eventful life. I would have very few regrets.

But would I change anything? Would I go back, knowing what I know now and do things differently to avoid pain or hardship? Sure.

Then I wonder if I would have had as many adventures, victories, or just plain "Yes!" moments to remember. Who would I be if I had been able to avoid pain or struggle? Just how does this work, living a life?  

Afterthought/added after original post:  
And what of disease, trauma, and violence? These do no one any good.  I would change those things if I could.  

My footprint in the sand at St. Augustine Beach, August 2016.

Time for Medicare

Holy Shit! Both T and I will turn 65 soon and we must sign up for Medicare.  Are you one of those people who always thought you paid into Medicare with every paycheck so that health care would be free when you got old?  Wrong.

We retired at 62 with The University’s fabulous health insurance plan. We were lucky to have that policy. We paid a reasonable monthly premium and, if we got sick, we could go to the doctor without breaking the bank. In addition to the reasonable premiums, there was a low co-pay and no deductible.

We’ll be kicked off the fabulous plan when we turn 65. The University requires Medicare-eligible retirees to switch to their less desirable 80/20 Insurance for Retirees as a secondary policy to cover what Medicare doesn't.

1.     MEDICARE AS PRIMARY INSURANCE

What is Medicare?

a.     Part A is “free” in that we spent our entire working lives paying into this fund. However, it is pretty much only for hospital bills.

b.     Part B is for routine medical services (e.g., doctor bills). You have to pay for Part B, so it is optional; however, you’d have to be wealthy, foolish, or poor enough to qualify for Medicaid not to buy into this program. After paying out of pocket for the annual deductible ($166), Part B pays 80% of covered costs.

For most oldsters the Part B premium is $104/month. Since we both turn 65 and sign up for Medicare in the fateful year of 2016 (when there was no Social Security increase) we are instead stuck paying $125/month (each). Don’t ask me to explain why. I don’t understand and I don’t really want to think about it overmuch. I have anger management issues. It is better for everyone if I think of it as simple bad luck.

c.      Part C is an optional “Advantage” program you can pay a private insurer for if you choose.  It then replaces Medicare Parts A and B (and sometimes D) and becomes kind of a super HMO, with similar restrictions on doctor choice. We are not HMO fans so we will not be opting for this.

d.     Part D is the government’s prescription drug program. You can choose to pay monthly for this if you want a prescription drug plan, which is not covered in Parts A or B. In addition to monthly payments, there are co-pays. Luckily, we will not need Part D because The University 80/20 Insurance Plan for Retirees has a decent prescription drug coverage. 

2.     SUPPLEMENTAL INSURANCE

Like I said above, our current fabulous University health insurance terminates when we turn 65.  Boo freakin’ hoo!  The University’s “80/20 Insurance for Retirees” will become our secondary health insurance. It requires a slightly lower monthly premium payment than the fabulous policy, but requires a yearly deductible before it will start paying 80% of the 20% Medicare does not pay. Yes, this is confusing, its not just you.

First there is the 80/20 primary Medicare Part B coverage (after their deductible is met), then 80/20 secondary supplemental coverage (after that deductible is met). I don’t know about you, but thinking in terms of repeating percentages  gives me a headache.

Here is the bottom line: When we 1. sign up for Medicare Parts A and B, and 2. switch to The University's 80/20 Insurance for Retirees we will pay $4,044/year more for health care for the two of us than we used to pay for the fabulous plan. And this does not include co-pays.  Ouch!

I wake up in the middle of the night trying to wrap my mind around this. However, I know it could be worse - we could be a struggling young family with obscenely high monthly health insurance premiums! I feel for them.

We are some of the lucky ones.  We knew this was coming and we will figure it out. We roll with the punches pretty well. We will just have to spend less on other things...

I understand why medical insurance becomes more expensive as one gets older, but I am not sure why it becomes more complicated. I had more brain cells to figure these things out when I was younger.

A brain cell image from the internet! Isn't she gorgeous?
medicalpicturesinfo.com430 × 323

Shingles

I have shingles, and I'm not talking about the siding on my house. 

According to the Mayo Clinic:
Shingles is caused by the varicella-zoster virus — the same virus that causes chickenpox. After you've had chickenpox, the virus lies inactive in nerve tissue near your spinal cord and brain. Years later, the virus may reactivate as shingles.

I have a mild case because when I turned 60 my good doctor gave me the shingles vaccine.  That is the magic age healthy people are supposed to get the vaccine.  Getting older seems to be an invitation for the varicella-zoster virus to return.  I wish my body would start consulting with my mind about issuing these age-related invitations. 

My doctor said the vaccine only reduces your chance of getting an outbreak by 50%.  Don't be discouraged though, for those of us who are vaccinated an outbreak isn't nearly as painful or intense as it would be otherwise. I have heard horror stories of how painful a full blown attack of shingles can be, so I am thanking my lucky stars that I got the vaccine.

It usually presents as a small strip of blistered rash on one side of your body.  I know, ick. It often appears on your torso, sometimes on your face. I have it on my right forehead and the top of my scalp. The shingles itch and ache with some nerve pain in my neck just below my ear. FYI it is very bad news if shingles form inside the eye. If you get shingles on your face an eye doctor will examine the eye and apply eye drops that ward off the worst of it. And by the worst of it I mean loss of vision. Scary, especially since my right eye has been swelling up overnight since the outbreak. I wake up each morning looking like a boxer who took it on the eye instead of the chin.

I went to my regular doctor (GP) and then an eye doctor. Helpful tip: if you really need to see a doctor tell the receptionist you think you might have shingles. Both places got me in immediately. The GP said that the shingles medication is only effective if you start taking it within 72 hours of the outbreak. I got in just in the nick of time and I am happily and earnestly taking my medicine 3 times a day for 7 days.

The eye doctor examined my eye and said no shingles in there!  I am so relieved.

He also said because I have shingles now, I only have about a 2.5% chance I will get it again.  I do so like those odds.

An old tree with an extremely odd trunk.  Nature will do what she will.

Rise and Shine

I have become a morning person. I did not see that coming. In my working years I always woke up early, at 6:10 a.m. to be exact. I did not like getting up early in those days. Perhaps it was because I HAD to get up. I resented having to follow an established schedule. Still, it was the way of the world and I did it for many years. I was happy to have the job, the work, the money, the people who filled my life.

Now I am retired and I still wake up about 6:10 a.m. Now it is my choice to either rise and shine or to turn over and go back to sleep. Rarely do I choose the latter. NEWS FLASH: Early morning is a great pleasure. Who knew?

Sometimes I stay in bed for awhile, awake. When luxuriating in bed is meditative and relaxing it is a lovely way to start the morning. Unfortunately, staying in bed can also become an anxiety fest.  Then it is best to get up and start the day. There are things to do. Buddy the Cat wants to be fed, coffee needs to be made, and the computer wants to be started up. Flowers and vegetable plants must be inspected for overnight growth. More often than not T has already fed the cat and started the coffee. Then I stumble around, looking a sight and trying to find my bearings. No rush, no hurry. I can slowly find my way.

A frog, taking her own sweet time