I read somewhere that after six months, most blogs (as in 90 percent) are abandoned by their creators. I can understand why. My blog has taken on its own personality, and—as such—has become a supreme nag. “When are you going to get to me?” it whines as I fold laundry, tidy up my office (a two hour job—it’s atrociously messy), depart for lunch with a friend or exercise at the Y. The impulse to kill it off and reclaim a few hours a week is mighty. BUT . . . it is a supremely fun excuse to write, so for now I’ll let it live.
Since my last entry, I’ve aged. Properly for age seventy, I might add, with much feting and many greetings from the corners of the country. Now that I’m here, it’s no big deal, I’m happy to announce.
Seventy? Isn’t it the new fifty? you may be asking. I’m happy to answer: NO! Seventy is seventy, and it’s old. The catch is whether or not a person considers old as bad. I do not. Old is simply what I am, and although some distinguish young-old, middle-old, and oldest-old (I would fall into the young-old category, by the way), nothing can masque the fact that behind me are seventy years of living. That’s a lot of drudgery, sorrow, and grief, as well as a lot of pleasure, joy, and laughter. On a daily tally, the happiness has it—hands down. I can’t tell you how delighted I am to be here and comparatively healthy.
While I daresay there won't be another seventy years ahead, I hope there'll be at least a few good ones. Onward, Sallie! Onward, blog!