Saturday, November 28, 2015

I think it was the moment that the other team was performing advanced calisthenics - deep squats, knee bends, push-ups - prior to the game while our team was happily engaged in an impromptu rendition of "the chicken dance," that I sized up the situation and came to one inescapable conclusion: we were going to get creamed.

I was at the checkout magazine rack, too cheap to buy, yet eager to learn how Angelina Jolie is going to balance celebrity, saving the world, motherhood and photo ops.

We are (too) fast approaching yet another 30-something birthday and let me assure you the new has worn off.

When I was a little girl, a common advertising icon was Reddy Kilowatt. He was an electrical sprite of undetermined origin who flittered about representing the magic of electricity.

I think what separates the old and settled from the young and carefree isn't age, career-path, or even a certain wisdom.

Forget hunting versus gathering, beauty versus brawn, and he Tarzan, she Jane. No, the real difference between men and women is as plain as black and white.

As usual, none of this is MY fault. I really had moved to the stage of acceptance of the "charm" of old house life - the smallish yet tallish rooms, the quirky corners, the cobwebs that spawn overnight.

Let me state, for the record, what has long been suspected and recently proven: I am not a trooper. Trooper.

It is not so much I mind having chosen a career path so vague as to rank somewhere below "illegal alien bus boy" in terms of status, but rather, I get no respect for doing it from my home that really rankles my soul.

Where's Internet privacy when you need it? Forget about snoops grabbing my credit card numbers or reading my e-mails.