Friday, March 15, 2002

The Ayes of March
This is my birth month. My birthday was this week. I have been celebrating my birthday all week -- not on purpose. It just turned out that way. I was taken out to lunch twice (each time by a different set of former work colleagues) and tonight I had dinner with a bunch of other people, including two whose birthday it is this week, including a guy with whom I've (literally) danced on and off for the past almost twenty years. I went out dancing on Wednesday, and I'm going out to do the same on Sunday. Yes. March is a "yes" this year.

Mike Golby (bless his indefatigable big heart) mentions that I make a point of my age, which, as of last Monday is 62. I consciously tell my age for a reason: age is just a number, and, in this day and age, women my age can look pretty good. (Actually, as soon as I figure out how to upload images onto my server so that I can then insert them into this blog, you'll see what I look like and that I'm not kidding. I'm taking my mother to visit my brother for several days, and while I have that time without responsibility for her, I'm going to figure this damned ftp uploading crap out.)

It just pisses me off that our culture makes women so reluctant to give their age. We should be confident enough in who we are to admit how long we have been on this planet. I remember some story about Gloria Steinhem turning 50, and someone remarked that she didn't look 50. Her response was something like "But this IS what 50 looks like." So, maybe under my picture, I'll put "But this IS what 62 looks like." WELCOME THE CRONE!

And hey, the really cool thing is that now I can collect my social security!!
Friends a la Blog.
While Sessum screams dreams and Rage Boy reams screeds and Turner sticks picks, Golby grinds grist from the starry night, and the lone Pole leans, inverted, into the dark dust.

This is not real time. This is surreal time. This is kalilily time.