Guilty pleasure

I'm an unabashed eavesdropper. Today, while I was part of the crowd waiting to cross Michigan and Randolph, I listened in on two very different conversations.

1) Woman on her phone: "… no, I don't know if I'll make it back in time … no, it's not fun … no, I don't know who's idea it was …" She was so unhappy, pulled so taut. When she got back to the office and discovered who's idea it was, well, I feel sorry for that person.

2) Two rather merry thirtysomething men: "He was fun to talk to until the meds wore off." "They let him go home that soon? Where did he have it done?" "Well, it wasn't a strip mall. It's not like you can have something like that done at a tanning parlor." "Strip mall brain surgery!" (Much laughter)  Brain surgery? I wonder how serious it could have been if the patient's friends were this jovial about it.

Feeling it

In less than 60 days I turn (gulp) 57. Suddenly I'm aware of my years.

•  It's harder to stand up after I've been sitting for a while

•  I completely forget common words (Sunday, after church, I kept saying, "you know, the thing" when I was referring to an insert in the bulletin)

•  The skin around my eyes is as thin, and as wrinkled, as tissue paper

I'm not digging any of this. But, alas, I can only stave it off, I can't completely prevent it. And I'm lucky it's taken me this long to start seriously showing my years on the outside.