I’ve been 56 for five weeks, which means I now look exactly like this:
(Also, I’ve had braces (on my teeth!) for a little over a month because I’m a stressed-out tongue thruster. My orthodontist had issues installing the brackets on my bottom teeth because of my “very big lips.” “Big lips are a good thing!” his assistant assured me as I looked around and noticed that the other treatment chairs were filled with tortoises and goldfish. I guess when you normally work with clients who don’t have lips, any lips at all feel like a really big deal.)
My opinion: 56 is sort of stupid. (You have every right to disagree, but you’re not going to sway me. I voted for Obama. Twice!) Yesterday I started reading So Much Blue by Percival Everett. Like me, the main character is 56 and he had THIS to say about THAT: “I am in age limbo—too aged to be reckless, too young to be a curmudgeon and get away with it.” (Picture me tilting my head to the side and muttering “Preach” as I flip a double bird to Age 56.)
Along with the incessant aging, I’ve also been:
Carving violence.
Carving monkeys.
Making out with a Big Boy.
Knitting a silk tank.
And screwing gigantic screws into the ground. (Don’t ask!)
56. Preach.
