Hello ladies. Meh. Not even going to try to explain how my last post was in January. Here it is March and this year is flying by just as quickly as last year. But that’s the thing as one gets older. Time literally flies. I heard some psych pro discuss this ‘racing time’ phenomenon on NPR, I think it was– several years ago. It has something to do about aging memory cells in the brain to simplify the topic. When one is young, the brain is young and therefore not filled up with a lot of life experiences. But as we age we gain experiences/memories and run out of memory space, so to speak, like the floppy disks of yesteryear. The brain discards past memories to make room for today’s experiences and in doing so creates some brain fuck of a time warp wherein the older brain senses the passing of time much faster. Make sense? I’m paraphrasing, sweetie, and more than likely screwed up the core thinking on the topic but at the time I heard the explanation it made such perfect sense. Go figure.

Ugh. I have corporate travel on the horizon. Again. Don’t mind the being there but it is always the getting there that sucks donkey dick. The last trip that I noted was timed during a nasty head cold which left me with a severe case of ‘airplane ear.’ And, no, it’s not a matter of extreme yawning and blowing my nose. Back in the 80s I had a similar bad experience with an airplane’s descent that had me in my doctor’s office 48-hours later. He essentially said that the tiny capillaries behind my eardrum had ruptured and that stuffed, odd blocked hearing loss was actually a tiny pool of blood behind the ear drum. I took some antibiotics and in a few days it passed. Still, I have to take a sinus decongestant and chew two pieces of “ICE” hyper-minty gum to clear my nasal passages for takeoff and landings. This is the core reason I’m not a fan of travel anymore.

Insert odd segue here: What with all the angst and heartbreak of the modern world, and with half the nation on anti-depressants I’ve been questioning why we stay here on this green earth at all. If the good book promises an afterlife of bliss, tranquility, and a sense of overwhelming love from benevolent Jesus why then are folks not offing themselves by the hundreds? I mean, right? If my version of happiness is just a quick step (leap?) from this apartment window what is the hold up? Maybe it’s just the unknown, the uncertainty, that the white light is even waiting for us. I have not figured this out and maybe it requires a theological pro for a more advanced answer. I make no bones about it: the one thing that keeps me here is my inability to get my affairs in order. I do not need my family combing through my massive wardrobe, thrift shop tchotchkes, and porn stash. You all only need worry when I have a walk-in closet that one can actually, like, walk in.

Still, I’ve pondered my demise and what that might look like as one does at this advanced age. And that aspect of offing myself is also a problematic facet. Who will do my bronzer? Where will I get planted? Do I want to go in ground or be cremated and spread on high, somewhere up a mountain overlooking Palm Springs? I just don’t have answers. But it should all be painfully tasteful and discriminatingly invitation only. Oh. And one more thing keeps me here: that lightning-in-a-bottle chance that I may, once again, fall madly in love and find that unicorn individual who will complete me and support my better shoes addiction.

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