So . . . I'm in the second half of my 50th year. (Russ, I promise to change my blog name soon. It doesn't take Freud to figure out why I haven't done that yet.) If my subconscious was right, I've got roughly 23 more years. I'm not really all that freaked out, or convinced I guessed right. I'm just a little convinced, you know, for insurance's sake. Like when you think "If I think this will happen, then maybe it won't because I thought it was going to happen, and Fate is always screwing with me."
Or am I the only one who does that?
Besides, for all I know, I guessed too far into the future. You just never know.
Anyway, I have no point. I have nothing funny or wise to share. But if I wait to be funny or wise, you may not hear from me for awhile.
Wish me luck tomorrow. It's going to be a challenging re-entry. Ten days off is a long time to think of where you are, what you're doing and why, and about who really matters.
It's also a long stretch to alternate between two pairs of comfy shorts and big t-shirts, forego make-up and not give a crap about what your hair looks like. And I really hate to see that come to an end.
P. S. Just so I feel like I gave you something of worth, here is a really great poem. Not a real upper, but good nonetheless.
"The Anniversary of My Death"