This month holds one of those morbid but inescapable milestones — the moment when I outlive a parent. I’ve already survived my father by eight years, but it’ll take four more days to beat out my mother, who died at age 62 1/2.
My mother’s birthday is this weekend, too.
No wonder I’m running to the doctor with vague UTI symptoms and acting like a klutz. Last week slicing onions, I cut half a fingernail off (fortunately, no flesh) and on Sunday — whoops! — fell flat on my back trying to negotiate a berm between sidewalk and beach near Castle Island.
K texts me about chicken hot pot from somewhere across the date line and it occurs to me that grab bars to aid safe exit from the bath tub might be advisable at this point.
That’s it. That’s the whole idea. I’m planning to live until age 86, in case you’re wondering or biting your tongue about the power of thought, etc.
Once I’m past the date, I’m pretty sure it’ll hold less charge.