Manic about the possibility of being considered--"middle-aged"--when a 102 year old sighs and breathes her night's journey a simple floor below. Suddenly, the rumination seems futile. What point is it to worry that you will be old? That you will grow old and die and have to have someone else cut your meat. Frankly, your meat has been cut before; your eggs scrambled soft for your baby tender teeth, so there is really no point in struggling or allowing the thought to plague you, lest you sprout one gray hair. Cut your own meat while you still can! Gnaw the potatoes, bite by bite by bite, and savor the flavors that come bursting into your palate while you are still ALIVE!
Ewa is 102 this week. Last year I greeted her at breakfast on her 101st and said, "Ewa! Your a 101!" She replied, "Cherie, I just remember really wanting to be 16," as if the last 86 years have been more or less a gift that wasn't requested, and quite possibly a burden.
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