On Tuesdays, I play 55+ cribbage at the Senior Center. One of my writer friends said he wouldn't go to a "Senior Center" because he doesn't want to be labeled a senior. I think he's a year older than I am. My theory: if being called a senior lets me save money at restaurants or at Goodwill or gets me in to play cribbage with a bunch of kick-ass players (One of my favorites is Earl, who is 93, unless he had a birthday I don't know about, & the sharpest tack on the bulletin board. Also cute. I told him if he wasn't too young for me, I'd go after him, & he said, "Back atcha.") then call me a senior. I know people who are younger than I am who don't have a youthful bone in their bodies. & I know that I adore this age that I am. I care so much less about what other people think about me, or about anything else. Why? Because we all get our own opinions. If I want to have mine, then I guess I'd better let everyone else have theirs.
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| Another mishmash of coolness, including a clock (no batteries, cuz I can't stand the ticking sound) from my deceased cousin Aeron & a pencil drawing by moi, along with various found or purchased items. |
Blog alternative:
313 . Do something youthful. Blow a straw wrapper at someone (you know) in a restaurant. Skip down a sidewalk. (I didn't learn to skip until I was 9...)
