Well, I’m up and doing things at 4:30 a.m. I went to bed last night before midnight so of course I woke up early. I have a speech at 6:45 this morning but I’m going to get some things done around the house before then.
I have only a couple of days to finish cleaning before my party, and I haven’t done any of the cooking yet. But, that’s all relatively easy to do.
I am generally pretty casual about cleaning – even when I’m having people over. But for Christmas I make an effort to have the house really nice. It’s exhausting. I know now why I don’t do it all the time. How do people manage to keep everything pristine all the time?
If I were a person who didn’t have much “stuff,” I suppose it would be easier since a large amount of the time is spent de-cluttering instead of actual cleaning. But, I’m a person who has stuff and I have been all my life. As I approach my 45th birthday I just don’t foresee that changing.
Yes… 45 on Dec. 23… hard to believe. Yesterday I got a “nice” lecture from an acquaintance about my penchant for younger men. It’s not that I only like younger men – it’s more that only younger men seem to like me. I’m not sure what that says about me, but probably something negative about my maturity level. But, lets just be positive so early in the day and say it’s my vivacious nature and excitement about life that they find appealing, instead.
I just do not meet men my own age. I don’t know where they are – it seems there would be lots of us – we’re the tail end of the boomers – but they must all be home watching television. And it’s not like I’m hunting for them, anyway. Generally, people my own age, with a few exceptions, are wrapped up in such mundane things I can’t even have a meaningful conversation with them. There’s too much soccer practice and too little substance.
When people talk about the idea of “shared experiences” with people my own age because we grew up at the same time, they aren’t taking into account that we were in college in the eighties – post pill, pre AIDS. Cocaine was readily available and we were trying to dull the shame of the disco era. Whatever shared experiences we had we’re probably not proud of – if we can even recall them. Sometimes they’re just a jumble of images of naked bodies and white lines on glass coffee tables.
This is an opportune time for me to mention I have never owned a glass coffee table.
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