Child of the Cold War

I was born in 1956 and grew up near the port city of Philadelphia.

I had the good fortune to attend public schools where there was none of that nonsense about hiding under desks. We were taught what a first strike zone was, that we were in one, and what that meant. We were also taught to how to exercise a little dignity in preparation for the day when it would be needed.

What we weren’t taught was how to deal with a world in which the Cold War was over.

When it did end, I remember having a hard time visualizing a world in which I might live a full span of years. I also remember deciding that it was probably pointless to try to do so as something else was likely to come along which would foreshorten the time.

There were times when I would begin to wonder about that foreshortening, but then someone would come along and blow up part of New York and I’d slide back into my comfort zone.

Now, at 51, I’m no so sure.

I’ve reached an age I’m already not supposed to have lived to be, according to that early life script. I’m finding it quite uncomfortable.

Since My Father Died

I’ve lost 15 excess pounds. I’ve gone off anti-depressants. I seem to have quit engaging in “shopping therapy.” I’ve gone back to cooking on a fairly regular basis. I’ve started taking lovely care of my fingernails, even though that means seeing someone every two weeks for professional treatments.

Funny how these things work.

The Week in Review

Yesterday I saw Jimmy Carter.  Today I was incompletely quoted in the newspaper published from our state’s capital city, and while what what they included was fine, they left out the best part.  This evening, I had three “bar” shots of Tequila (which I haven’t done in quite a long time) , at home in the safety of my own kitchen and they knocked me on my virtual posterior.

I must say that I’m not much impressed with myself.