This is me, three years ago, visiting some dear friends in England. Lest you think I am some travel maven that flits from country to country and lives a life of soirees, pâté and chilled champagne,
Let me add that it was my only trip ever out of the U.S, and that it took several weeks of therapy and two xanax to even get me to the airport.
I am a homebody. So is my husband. And we also have a lazy standard poodle, and five cats. No, my house does not smell of cat pee.
I write. Have always done so. Poems, brochures, song lyrics, speeches ( for the chancellor of a state university), company magazines. It has been my soul, and for many years, my sole employment.
I am nearly 74 years old. I need to repeat that in order for it to be real to me: On April 18,2016, I will be 74. That just can’t be right. And yet, there it is.
I havent done it all yet
I am just getting the hang of this
I never imagined I would age. Nobody ever does. I look in the mirror sometimes when I’m washing my face.
I say, “Who the fuck are You?
I, it is I.
I will continue to be me