Okay, that’s probably an overstatement. The heart-lung machine, or whatever they call the device that keeps people alive during heart transplants. The airplane, at least before the industry got so ridiculous about cramming people in like sardines, and now is paying for it in spades because social distancing prevents them from doing this. The can opener. The piano. Innumerable vaccines. Ball-point pens. Deodorant. Motor vehicles. Computers. The pump that brings water up from a deep well. Air conditioning.
Yes, friends, it’s true: I shall reach the exalted age of sixty soon. Very soon. Very.
Recently, I watched an episode of “Sex and the City” in which Charlotte announced that she was not going to turn 36 on her birthday because “I’m just not where I thought I’d be at 36, so I’m sticking at 35.” Granted, she was in a tough spot: her marriage had crumbled under the stress of infertility, and her efforts to resume the career she’d paused for babymaking had proven fruitless. Still, it set me to wondering: am I where I thought I’d be at 60? Continue reading
Hours may drag, but years race.
Somebody wise has probably said something like that. If they haven’t—well, you read it here first. Continue reading