Sticky, sugary, candy Easter eggs, milk-chocolate, hollow Easter bunnies, peanut butter cups in pastel colors, pink and blue M & M’s, jelly beans, and Peeps are some of the reasons I like Easter. But…there are two Easter traditions I dislike.
The first is the fake Easter grass normally placed in Easter baskets. Sure the colorful eggs are pretty resting on the green, yellow, or pink indestructible strands of grass. Those strands, however, are not so pretty wrapped around the brush of the vacuum cleaner come July. Where do those stray strands hang out most of the year? It doesn’t matter how carefully I vacuum, one surfaces periodically throughout the year. In fact, if there is Easter grass in the house in April, there will be Easter grass in the house in June, August, September, and December. Alas, if that were only true about Peeps.
The second Easter tradition I dislike is coloring hard-boiled eggs. How many yukky, mud-colored eggs can a person eat? Fortunately those do not randomly roll out from under the sofa months later.
Additional Easter happenings I enjoy are egg hunts, family dinners, and attending church during Holy Week and Easter morning.
“He is risen! Glory Halleluiah!”
There comes an age when a woman should not look in the mirror on the back of the car visor in broad sunlight. I passed that age some years ago. There was just too much on my mind to pay attention to the gradual increase of small lines on my face and whatever was happening to my chin (s). In my defense, I worked full time, and I paid attention to where my children were and what they were doing.
So, I was shocked when I inadvertently caught a glimpse of myself in the car mirror last week. I immediately ordered a half dozen turtlenecks over the Internet. Fortunately, they shipped overnight without incident, and the special order of neck scarves should arrive tomorrow.
While I heeded the warnings about cigarette smoke and sun, I failed to apply an anti-aging lotion to my face while watching late night…after late night…after late night Letterman monologues. After experimenting for a week, I determined I looked younger when I smiled. So, I’m now committed to reading the Sunday comics and checking out the late night comedians—with wrinkle resistant lotion in hand and on my face, of course.
“I’m not sure anyone over the age of 70 should wear leggings.”
“Body size should be considered.”
“Maybe with a long top?”
I had heard opinions about who should and who should not wear leggings in public, yet I bought a pair. They are warm and comfortable. Mine are made of some heavy-duty, stretchy type material. On that same shopping trip I added a long, comfortable, green sweater to my wardrobe.
One freezing morning, I threw caution to the cold, north wind and wore my leggings and new sweater to the grocery store. (Even though I don’t drink milk, I needed to get some before the predicted snow storm.) I had just rounded the corner to the produce aisle when—WHOA—I saw my grandmother in the mirror above the Brussel sprouts. She was wearing the black ski pants with stirrups I purchased in 1965. But it wasn’t grandma, it was me.
The words “over 70—body size—long top—over 70—body size” repeated in my mind.
On the good side, if I get some yellow, or red and white striped leggings, I might find seasonal work as a Christmas elf. Does anyone have a pair of boots with curled-up toes?
Up until about ten years ago, I thought 70 old—very old. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be 70. Now that I am slightly past 70, I’ve decided it really is a pretty good age. In fact, I’ve gotten pretty good at saying, “I’m old.” For example:
“It’s okay to have gray hair. I’m old.”
“I’m taking the elevator. I’m old.”
“Is there a senior discount? I’m old.”
“Could we make a bathroom stop? I’m old.”
“Yes, I need help carrying my groceries to the car. I’m old.”
“Do those slacks come with an elastic waist band? I’m old.”
“I have to be home by 8:30 tonight. I’m old.”
“Maybe I parked my car in the next row? I’m old, you know.”
“I should know your name, but I don’t remember it. I’m old.”
““Did I take my pills this morning? I don’t remember. I’m old.”
“It is all right to not be productive every hour of the day. I’m old.”
“I think I’ll sleep in tomorrow. I’m old.”
“I’m not going to do anything today. I’m old.”
One thing I know for sure is that it is a good thing I’m able to say “I’m old.”
Shortly after I arrived at my son’s house to watch my two youngest grandchildren, the zipper on my jeans broke. My two-year-old granddaughter thought that amusing, and randomly throughout the day, lifted my long sweater and said “your jeans are broke.”
Next my earring got caught in loose threads on the baby’s drool bib. He had just taken his bottle, and with our faces an inch apart, I hoped for a “dry” burp.
As I attempted to free myself from the bib, my young granddaughter picked up one of the three television remotes, stated “I hide the remote,” and headed toward the bedrooms. (I’m not sure all three are TV remotes. I just push buttons on each remote until the TV does something.) Fortunately, it was only 8:15 A.M., and I still had most of the day to locate the remote.
Everyone knows how quickly spilled milk runs onto the floor, but how many of you know the number of square feet a dropped plate of macaroni and cheese covers? Sixteen–sixteen square feet.
Well, yes, I’ll watch the kids again tomorrow. I love rocking the baby, and that sweet little girl says the cutest things….
I am blessed.