I swore I’d never write a Christmas newsletter. I’ve sneered and cringed at them in the past, but have also read every word given the chance. I’ve written one here due to peer pressure. Admittedly it will be fun to see what my brain keeps in its short term memory files under Highlights of 2025.
I have 3 inches left to knit on a sweater I started 12 months ago. I had a hard time following the pattern so I made it up as I went along. From far away, or if you squint, it’s not bad. Up close, however it looks like something I would have designed in 5th grade. The only thing it’s missing is a row of peace signs. (Photo on demand.)
Last month I finished a sweater that is appropriate to wear while milking goats. It’s rather rustic looking and it makes me feel like a homesteader. (Photo on demand.)
I’m pretty sure in June, July and August, I was knitting.
At one point, I was 90% sure that I would meet a famous actor after attending his theater production. I convinced myself that we would have plenty to talk about if we went out for a beer or he invited me onto his podcast. The opportunity never arose but I’m proud of my preparedness.
I went to a writing retreat and felt my buttons getting pushed, my cage being rattled, and lights coming on. Additionally it’s reassuring to know I can still drive a rental car.
I started high blood pressure medication and assume it’s working.
I taught a couple of classes where I was sure I was on Candid Camera or being punked.
Due to the addition of social security payments, I’m making as much money per week now as I did in 1988 as a ski instructor in Australia. This is huge.
I visited a Shaker Village and felt at home. Too bad I hadn’t finished my homesteader sweater by then.
After my first Israeli Dance class, I realized it really is easier to blame another person (the teacher) when you are embarrassed, competitive, or expect more from yourself. The next week I brought her an apple.
I made an old sour puss laugh.
That’s the news from Danby Mountain Road. Wishing you the best and hope you don’t feel the need to write back with a list of births, deaths, graduations, marriages, divorces, or other accomplishments unless that’s all you’ve got. I’ll totally get it. And please feel free to sneer or cringe.
Some tasks I dread doing, like weeding the garden, grating cheese, vacuuming, and stacking wood. It’s not just disdain for repetition and predictability, but also the inherent possibility of injury or being bored to death. The fact that I know these aren’t one-time events, makes it worse.
I find numbers soothing in many circumstances. I add, subtract, multiply, and divide. I count breaths, trips, rows, clogs, jams, or minutes. Often I calculate how much money I’m saving by not hiring a professional, or I figure out how much I would charge per minute if I were one.
Three years ago I decided to count the logs as I stacked a cord of wood. A cord is usually four feet high by four feet wide and eight feet long, or 128 cubic feet.
It took me all week to complete, but 270 trips carrying two logs at a time came to 540. (It’s easier to count by twos than threes or fours.) I made note of that figure.
Two years ago, two cords of wood arrived along with eight inches of snow. That was manual labor at its worst. Counting, however, helped. I was curious to see if 540 was indeed a reliable number. I ended up tallying 1084, four extra logs. I’m definitely on to something.
Last year, three loads arrived at once. There was going to be a lot of counting.
As the kid dumped the last pile I proudly said, “I’ve already stacked 100 logs! That’s about a fifth of a cord, just about 20%. By my calculations there should be 1620 logs here.”
He looked at me blankly.
“Did you know there are 540 logs in a cord give or take?” I asked.
“That’s weird,” he said oddly. Maybe it was odd that I was sharing this weird information.
A few days later I came home to find my sister stacking. “I did five trips for you” she announced as I got out of the car. Despite her kind gesture, I had a slight feeling of unease.
“Chad was helping earlier, but I don’t think he was counting. I’d estimate maybe 40 logs each.” I was feeling slightly panicky. I sensed a loss of control. Doesn’t everyone know how important this is to me? I need to keep track or else come up with a new system to complete this job.
It must have been a day for Good Samaritan’s because shortly after Dee left, two friends arrived. They were dressed like professional woodsmen, in red and green plaid jackets.
“We’re here to help!”, they announced in tandem.“Oh, fantastic!” I said with a sinking feeling. “Do you know there are 540 logs in a cord?” I asked. It was a test. I hoped the response would be “Oh wow! That’s so cool, what number are you up to now?” Instead I got, “Oh man, don’t tell us that”.
That was it. No irrefutable numbers this year however, the job got finished in record time.
Stacking wood with friends and family is quicker and can be more fun. So what if no one else cares how many logs to a cord? Not everyone is into numbers.
Yesterday, when I arrived home, Peter had begun to stack. “The new cart holds 40 logs and this is my second trip.” His words were music to my ears. I counted as we filled the cart from his truck five more times. The total came to 278, two logs shy of a full half cord.
Some things we dread, but must do. No matter how we get a task done, whether by calculating, singing, listening, watching, zoning out, zoning in, commiserating, or simply being mindful, there is a feeling of accomplishment at the end. And sometimes your own method really is the best one.
Dealing with the elements, minimal provisions and possibly building her own snow fort for 3, takes balls. However, I’m surprised she didn’t mention potential wild animal encounters.
Maybe she had enough to think about. Better out of mind and out of sight, I’d say.
I’ve felt that way when Lassie stops short while we are walking in the woods. I don’t know what’s out there but if you ignore them, whatever them are, they will ignore you. I then pay attention to things that are more afraid of me than I of them, like newts, and keep on walking.
Yesterday Lassie charged off the porch and stopped 8 feet short of a teenage porcupine. She wasn’t moving any closer. She’s smart like that.
“HEY…Whoa there!” I yelled at both animals as I picked up a piece of house trim that had fallen off of something.
The teenage porky was coming home late. This was all he needed.
“G’won git. You ain’t stay’n’roun here” I growled, as I neared him and then leaned on the trim like a shovel. (I do a really good Sam Elliot impersonation.)
The standoff took a couple of minutes.
“Wha’jew jest say ta’ me?” I sneered at his puffed up back as he finally toddled off, rolling his eyes.
Earlier this summer, my friend Maggie, her dog JJ, Lassie, and I were setting off on a walk in the woods.
She said, “Did I tell you about the bear on Playhouse Lane? He was eating berries off the bushes, in front of the old schoolhouse. We wouldn’t have seen it except a neighbor waved, put his fingers to his lips and pointed. I couldn’t believe it! I’ll show you the photo when we get back to the car. I walk with an air horn now. Wait…it must have fallen out of my pocket when I took off my sweater.”
“It’s blue and white” she yelled over her shoulder. as we retraced our steps. I could have used more specifics like shape, size, or shade of blue. I didn’t know how to focus my eyes.
I asked myself, “Aren’t air horns huge and loud? Is there smoke? Are they dangerous? Do they detonate if they are dropped?”
Well, evidently not.
“Found it!” She announced.
It looks like an inhaler.
Back at the car she showed me a picture of a teenage bear brazen enough to pick at easy eats in the historic district of town.
It looks at the camera with a goofy, yet bullying expression, as if saying,
“Keep moving, nothing to see here. Buggawuggawoo! Runaway scaredy cats”.
I’m going to practice making air horn noises just for fun. BAAAaaaaaWHAAaaaa. I can add it to my repertoire of impersonations. I’ll also add a real one to my emergency pack along with candy and duct tape in case I ever go on a real hike.
Giving human personalities or characteristics to inanimate objects is common. Additionally anthropomorphizing often involves naming items that don’t really care if they have a name or not.
Things we spend a good deal of time with, like my stuffed animals, Bear, Monkey, George, and Snowy, deserve respect and kindness. Humans do as well but it can be more difficult.
My friend, Betty, urged her bike, “You can do it Old Yeller”, when tackling hills. Two old boyfriends did the same with Big Pig (a truck) and GRRRrrr (a Holden sedan.)
Recently I bought a truck. Its color is described as Eruption Green, which is sort of odd. I’m stumped at the reference. Peter said it’s actually a British Racing Green. That sounds better, and when describing it, people know what I’m talking about.
The salesman asked “What are you going to name your truck… Kermit?” What an odd suggestion. Everyone knows that Kermit the Frog’s hue is like the inside of a kiwi.
“I don’t name my vehicles.” I almost sniffed.
I was acting a little haughty but I get that way in car dealerships. It’s a “DON’T MESS WITH ME” persona.
”Yeah, yeah, yeah, sign here lady”, the man eventually says.
Empathy, like anthropomorphism, requires thinking beyond ourselves. It’s being considerate and caring whether or not the item or person is breathing, purring, wagging, acting, trading, or snuggling exactly the way we want them to.
It can be hard when we are unsure, trepidatious, fearful, nervous or apprehensive. It takes practice.
I’m going to continue working on it in my Blazing Emerald Curly Kale colored truck, named Car. Ideally I won’t be so disdainful the next time I visit a dealership.
I chose to go to London because Sean Hayes was taking his Broadway production of “Goodnight, Oscar” there in September.
Since listening to the podcast “Smartless”, I’ve come to appreciate Sean’s appreciation of “the worst thing that ever happened” theater stories. Everyone has nightmare situations, that given a bit of time, can become humorous memories.
I sent Sean a letter, complete with an air mail stamp, in care of the Barbican Theater.
Dear Sean,
I know you like theater mishaps so here’s mine. I’m not an actor but I was a background dancer for a version of Oklahoma, set in Boston during the peak of the whaling industry. I was unaware that the whales spotted off shore were a good thing. I thought they were an omen. After the show my sister asked me why I looked so stern dancing while the others seemed gleeful. No one said anything to me during rehearsals so maybe the director thought I only had one look. (It was community theater after all.)
I’m looking forward to meeting you after your show, and introducing you to my niece. I’ll be the one with the harpoon.
Sincerely,
Alexandra Langstaff
You’d be surprised by what you can make with ribbon, duct tape, and a pencil.
I let my niece, who lives in the UK, know I’d written my matinee idol, and if, on the slim chance he offered us dinner after the show, we had to take him up on it.
Sometimes I amaze myself at what I think is possible.
The Barbican is huge. I was anticipating something a bit more intimate like our local theater. Imagine 1500 people watching me drive away a pod of whales versus 300. Despite its intimidating size, and the massive crowd, there were only about 12 of us standing outside the well marked back stage door after the show.
I took the opportunity to direct my niece to take a photo. “I won’t pose, but try to get a picture of me handing him the harpoon”. I could feel her cringe but I was too pumped with adrenaline to think past myself.
I wasn’t sure if I was excited, or anxious, horrified, embarrassed, and uncomfortable. When have I ever done anything like this before?
Oh wait, there were those incidents with David Sedaris, Ralph Covert, and also the Spinners.
The first to exit was the actor who played George Gershwin. I applauded him like a well-mannered American. People held out pens and programs for his autograph. I forgot about that tradition.
As he signed, the stage manager came out and announced that if anyone was waiting for Sean Hayes, he’d already left.
Oh. I didn’t expect that possibility.
The woman next to me asked George (David Burnett ) if he would pass on a gift to Oscar (Sean Hayes) for her. What an insult. How rude, how insensitive. She couldn’t be British, I thought.
“Yes of course!” He replied. I admired how polite he was.
If I hadn’t left my roll of duct tape in the room, I could have whipped together something and ad libbed. “Here’s a harpoon for Sean and one for you. It’s a long story, blah, blah, blah, but that was a whopper of a show!” But, I didn’t have the goods nor the guts to do anything.
Remarkably, one of the autograph seekers could sense my turmoil. “Do you have something for Sean? Just knock on the door, they will give it to him when they see him. Go ahead.”
She will never know how her encouragement boosted my bravery level. I will never forget it.
“Could you please give this to Sean? I made this harpoon because blah, blah, blah.”
”Why yes of course” the man behind the desk said. How kind. How helpful. How British.
We left the theater for the Tube. I was so elated that I could have run the four miles back to my hotel, but my niece had a bum knee.
I was dazed with excitement at what was, wasn’t, and could have been.
Maybe that’s why two different people offered me their seat on the 20 minute ride home.
Nonetheless, I have two theater stories to share when I get invited on to a podcast.
I saw a drag bingo game while binging on one of the many shows I watch. It looked incredible. So I checked it out, and sure enough it’s a thing. As luck would have it, there was even a weekly one, with brunch, in London where I would be visiting in a few months. I assumed my niece who lived there, would love to spend some quality time with her Auntie, so I purchased two tickets.
I was looking forward to a show of beautiful, impressively made up people dressed to the nines. Performers in outfits I couldn’t even imagined existed.
It was held at a comedy club below street level. We were ushered to a table for two next to the main stage and cat walk, and below the mechanical ball draw machine.
It’s probably the closest I’ll come to being seated like a VIP.
Most of the surrounding tables were for groups of 8 to 10, gathered for hen (bachelorette) parties. Many wore sashes, crowns, and paper bridal gowns.
My expectations were slightly dashed when the MC, sporting a hot pink mini dress, platform shoes, and platinum wig, began the show. I wanted to be in awe, but I was distracted by the lush mustache. The false eyelashes were impressive, but I didn’t exactly feel transported.
The event featured three rounds of bingo. There are no letters so it’s “Drop your drawers 74” rather than “Candy store, B74”.
Originally called Housey-Housey, British bingo uses 90 balls whereas the local VFW uses 75. I’m not sure how that’s relevant.
Using your colored marker, another slight disappointment, no real dauber, you mark the called numbers and hope to fill a horizontal line anywhere on the page.
”Give us a cheer if you know what horizontal means” smirked the MC when giving instructions to the only two people in the room who weren’t sure what they were doing.
As the numbers are announced, you have to shut out the clucking and frivolity, and move your eyes rapidly around the page. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize the empty squares were free spaces and no numbers were repeated.
The first winner got on stage and did a dance with the MC. Everyone seemed to recognize the choreography, except for me.
”Touch my bum, number one!” Our host continued from the podium, after twerking with the second winner. At that point I vowed not to win.
There was a fair bit of audience participation, besides rapid eye movement. The DJ started and stopped musical tracks to the MC’s banter, songs that most of the audience knew the words too. During the 30 second singalongs, I only recognized Cher’s “ If I could turn back time”, so I joined in with Mad Magazine‘s version, belting out “If I could find my clothes.”
Most of the songs came out before my niece was born, so I advised her to sing WA-TER-MEL-ON over and over again. It moves your mouth around enough to look like you know the lyrics. I mouthed as I waved my arms overhead in solidarity with all those rueing lost love in a prosecco daze.
”Tickle my bits, twenty-six!” our host said with a wink.
Volunteers were invited on stage (six inches away) for a Macarena contest. Despite slight egging from my fellow VIP, I stayed glued to my seat. Good thing… I forgot that you put your hands behind your head before crossing your heart. I would have looked like an idiot.
During the break, a woman behind me at the end of the 12 hen bathroom line said “I can’t wait… I’m going to the gents… or maybe I shouldn’t… should I… don’t know…”
“Go” I commanded, “I’ll follow you and stand guard.” That was unnecessary because the handful of men had whipped in and out already.
Half a dozen followed us to one enclosed toilet and four urinals. I thought how cool it would have been if I’d packed the camper’s funnel I bought a couple of years ago so I could pee standing up while in the woods. (It was a covid purchase.)
Fortunately, I didn’t have to go that bad. This was more precautionary.
When the first woman came out, she thanked me profusely, as if I had just secured voting rights or something. A bottomless Prosecco hen party will do that.
“I’m the oldest one here,” I yelled in my nieces’ ear when I got back from sentry duty. “No,” she yelled back. “There’s a bunch of gray haired people at that table over there.”
Must be celebrating a second marriage.
Throughout the games, the MC periodically razzed on audience members. I hoped to God she wouldn’t say anything to me like, “Hey Nan, still getting plenty? It’s number 20!”
Why was I uncomfortable? Was it because I was there with my niece? Was that weird? Was it because I didn’t know what to expect, didn’t quite get the rules, or simply because everyone else was at least 40 years my junior?
I was there because I had the opportunity to experience something that intrigued me. It’s OK to feel discomfort, to feel awkward. It means that we are challenging ourselves, perhaps emotionally, perhaps physically, perhaps mentally.
It’s interesting to see how we react, and why. What are we learning, appreciating or understanding?
Maybe these questions are the point of a drag bingo brunch.
I sort of retired this summer because I stopped teaching creative movement classes for little ones. It turns out that I’m teaching the same amount, but all the classes are intentionally yoga based. Is that boring?
Although closing the age gap from 1 to 98 years old to 8 to 98 ( letting go of 6% of my student population) it will hardly effect my life expectancy. However, older folks will appreciate the fact I don’t ask them to drum their names while I toss Monkey in the air, and young kids won’t wonder why I’m not doing so.
I’m not 100% sure why I’m letting them go, except for the fact that I’d be teaching a second and almost third generation of kids and it makes me feel long in the tooth.
There’s nothing wrong with a healthy dose of ego to get one to change life paths. So I guess I didn’t really retire from everything.
“You aren’t retiring, maybe redefining?” my friend Claudia typed back after receiving my weekly missive of fussing and thoughts.
In simple terms, I’m getting out while I’m ahead. It may be in my own head, but that’s all that matters. I did the same during my skiing and dancing eras. Totally ego based decisions. Wise ones at that.
Ego is important. It keeps us balanced between inner, natural and human, desires and expectations, and those of the outside world.
Redefining the ego is an essential practice, it involves retiring what is no longer of use or available. It may be based on life circumstances, financial obligations, or on our physical and mental capabilities.
My ego is pretty healthy when it comes to paying attention to my teeth.
Whenever mom’s bored with my conversation, she asks me. So I get it a lot.
I know she means a physical practice but I always go the philosophical route with my answer. It’s sort of a game.
“Every day” I reply.
“Really.” She looks up from the needlepoint chair cushion she’s been working on forever. Her eyebrows are raised in question and with slight skepticism. (I’d find every day hard to believe myself.)
“My practice is less physical and more mental. That’s harder.”
“Good answer slacker”, someone, somewhere is saying, or maybe that’s just me.
I think mom’d rather a more athletic response. At 95, she’s still addicted to exercise and doesn’t understand why her children aren’t following directly in her never ending footsteps. Or maybe she’s checking my sincerity. Will I say the same thing over the years? Is it a real commitment to yoga, like some hold with religion or favored book genres? Or am I faking that I know what I’m doing and what I believe in?
The last time she checked on my true devotion to something was when I said I was going to take a gap year after high school. She asked me a few times what I was going to do instead. My answers were all over the map, yet they included nothing around the map.
I didn’t know where I was heading or how, and somehow mom knew I wasn’t yet ready to flow with the world. I was lucky to be offered 4 years of college to hone some directional skills instead.
Her questions then and now are good reminders for me to take stock.
Am I following my authentic self with knowledge and direction?
Do I know what I’m doing?
The last time she asked about the frequency of my practice, I had put some thought into my answer and was prepared.
“When I get tailgated on the road and I don’t react by slamming on the brakes, I’m practicing yoga.
I’m practicing when I patiently collaborate, or agree to do something I have no interest in doing.
When I do any kind of manual labor for longer than 20 minutes, or add kale to my breakfast smoothie, I’m practicing yoga.
When I clarify a misunderstanding or share a brownie, it all counts as part of my practice.
When we are committed to yoga, it’s a full time way of being.”
Mom nods her head in agreement with my monologue. My response sounds authentic to us both, with just a touch of predictable laziness on my part.
My writing friend is a good influence. Somehow she encourages philosophical prattle and slight irreverence in me whenever we get together. The other day we met to discuss petty, yet important, dramas and strains in our lives.
“I just realized that no matter how bad, sad, or frustrated I feel, I’m not the only one feeling this way. That’s sort of a bummer,” I whispered as we sat at the end of the mystery section in the library. “Why can’t it just be about me? Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, not even Jesus,” I half sang.
I believe Jesus is quite aware of my woes. Just as I am aware of the woes of others. This is what I mean about her influence. She made selfish, whining words roll off my tongue. It was liberating. Maybe that was her intention.
”Write that down” she exclaimed excitedly. And of course I did because that’s what we do.
The day’s discussion got pretty deep as we discussed writing goals. She intimated she was aiming towards a large manuscript. “My point is I want to have a point,” I confessed.
“Write that down” she directed.
I don’t know if I made up that sentiment about making a point, or read it on a poster in the early 80s.
That happens. Phrases that resonate are like discovering buried treasure when all you’re doing is lazily digging your fingers in the sand. “Enjoy your next trip around the sun” popped up on social media one year. That’s brilliant. Who came up with it? Euclid?
”I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired” my buddy Mike said after we taught skiing all day in a blizzard. I had never heard anything so original, so grumpy, so perfect. It was like he channelled the old grousing crabs who sit in the box seat at the theater on the Muppet Show.
It became my go to response when I knew my crankiness and frustration was out of proportion to the situation at hand. It would be great printed on a rubber bracelet as a reminder to snap out of it.
Research shows that activist Fannie Lou Hamer originally used the phrase in a more serious way. Bromley ski school had nothing on the Jim Crow South.
Later on the drive back to town I said, with a bit of alarm, ”Wow it’s hard to see. These snowflakes are huge”. The blizzard hadn’t let up. “Well, don’t try to hit them” Mike said calmly.
With that advice, my grip on the steering wheel softened and my body began to relax.
Just because you’re driving in a blizzard doesn’t mean you need to hit the flakes. Wait. Did we just make up a slogan for an inspirational accent pillow?
As a wedding gift, a childhood friend gave me a glittery blue bumper sticker that had bold white letters saying “One day at a time”.
What an incredible bit of advice. It could be an inspirational cross stitch done by Mrs. Walton or Ma on the Little House on the Prairie. The message was clear, life is filled with challenges, keep calm.
I was only 30 so the AA connection didn’t register.
I proudly stuck it on to our tractor but now wonder how many people driving by over the years wondered which one of us was in recovery.
That marriage didn’t last, but the sentiment did.
That’s the wonderful thing about seemingly trite phrases. Pretty much everyone gets them; however, our interpretations may be different. When we make fun of them, we are actually doing ourselves a favor. It transmits a message from the brain to the nervous system that says “Chill out man, you aren’t alone, there’s a special place in heaven for you.”
The last couple of weeks have been hell on my ego. It started with a flattering email from a fake writer that I came this close to “agreeing to the terms to market your exceptional book” and then came a different email from a real person. This one said, “We find manuscripts like yours have insufficient reader interest.” Those were nine words that got seared onto my brain. My ego deflated faster than an unknotted balloon. It’s not my first rejection, I just didn’t expect it.
During the past fortnight, after 36 years rolling around like a hotdog, and tangoing like a rabbit, I taught my last creative movement class. The days of being eyed suspiciously when one’s child greets me at the grocery store will dwindle.
“Hi, Vinny and I know each other. I’m Hullabaloo.” I say reassuringly. “Oh yes, of course he loves Hully” they reply, relieved that I’m not some weirdo. My ego is tentative about losing my identity as the person who has more four year old friends than those her own age, however my body is 80% ready for a transition.
One of my favorite routines with kids is “Hawk and the Rock”. I’m a hungry hawk looking for something to eat. Each child sits like Buddha, pretending to be a mouse that’s pretending to be a rock. This old bird thinks she’s going to have a pistachio ice cream, or a chili con carne flavored mouse to eat. But no.
They love being lowered back down to the ground as I complain, “That’s not a mouse, that’s a rock.” Foiled again.
Over the years, my arms have turned into strong, wiry, sinewy, raptor-like appendages.
It’s not the best look, and when my ego is getting kicked around, it means reevaluating all of my shirts in dismay.
“Why is your face so red?” A 5 year old asked.
“You try deadlifting twelve 45 pounds kids in two minutes,” I did not reply.
Which reminds me, I started taking high blood pressure medicine last week. The last prescription I remember taking was Darvon every time the braces on my teeth got tightened in high school. I don’t think this new daily dosage is a big deal but my ego is slightly concerned about now having a condition.
And then this arrived:
“I hope this email finds you well! I’m reaching out because I noticed you haven’t completed your nomination to be featured on Behind Bodybuilders. This is your chance to inspire millions, grow your personal brand, and unlock incredible opportunities—but time is running out!”
“Did they really mean to contact me?” My ego asked coyly lifting itself off the ground.
Let’s think about this.
There’s no way I would complete, much less initiate my own nomination to something like BB.
My bodybuilding journey is a short one. My official weight training began once my fractured shoulder had sufficiently healed, about 3 months ago. I say official because the woman who gave me two 20 minute individualized work out programs is a real live professional. Apparently hoisting kids-pretending-to-be-mice-pretending-to-be-rocks is not quite sufficient for doctor recommended osteoporosis prevention.
Maybe I’m misreading and they want to feature those people behind the bodybuilders, those who inspire, encourage, and support the Lou Ferrignos and the Iris Floyd Kyles out there. That still doesn’t explain my inclusion. (I had to look up famous bodybuilders because I couldn’t spell Schwarzenegger on my own.)
Maybe they are phishing for those of us who use our bodies to earn a living. We sure do come in all shapes, sizes, and areas of expertise. I have a friend who teaches pole dancing and she’s much more fit than me. I wonder if she got the email.
Although my every other day (or once a week) weight routine may be effective, I think it’s the daily application of Gold Bond’s Age Renewer Crepe Corrector that’s doing the trick. I don’t think this kind of testimonial is what the BB’s are looking for.
And then this happened:
“You have good arms,” Mom said after our Oldster yoga class. “You can wear sleeveless shirts.” I pretended not to hear her so she would say it again.
With those nine words, my ego was inflated with helium. I can almost imagine tattooing the words around my slightly defined bicep.
And then this happened:
“Let’s get together and see how we can keep Hully going.” That came from a legitimate (and much younger) educator and colleague. Maybe my hotdog rolling days aren’t over yet.
Sometimes our ego keeps us grounded and tethered and sometimes it gives us the weightlessness needed to make changes.
I may have insufficient reader interest, and a future floating in the air, but someone is interested in carrying the torch I’ve loved carrying, and mom said my arms look good. My ego is right where it should be.
Alexandra Langstaff 