Weddings and anniversaries seem like one-day events to me. What matters more are the things that transpire on all the other days of the year -- how you treat each other, how you make one another feel, what kind of partnership you have running the show that is your life together.
Lately, I've been giving a lot of thought to my commune -- the one I plan on forming when I'm older and widowed and my kids are launched into lives of their own. Think I'm alone in the commune-planning department? You'd be mistaken.
As the drama unfolds and fingers of blame are pointed at the Secret Service over recent breaches of security at the White House, we have a bit of good news/bad news to report.
Death isn't what scares me. Dying is. And that's because the act of dying today is too often accompanied by medical interventions long passed the point where the patient's prognosis would suggest their futility. Why should dying be so hard?
Last week, I had one of those absolutely awful days. In Internet-speak, it was a 'Worst. Day. Ever.' I'll spare you the details, but suffice to say when I got home, I did something unusual: I phoned a friend.
The say that eventually the child becomes the parent. In my mind, that's a situation that comes much much later in life when parents are old and frail and need help getting around. But I recently learned otherwise.
I had to smile when a colleague emailed that she had to work from home that day because she needed to wait for the plumber. She's a virgin home owner, which is to say that when she and her husband bought their first house just a few months ago, she hadn't a clue what bidding adieu to a landlord meant. Mostly what it means is that you spend a lot of time waiting for plumbers.
By the time my 40-something year-old mother gave birth to me, I was already down to just two living grandparents -- and one of them was in a home for the aged.
Some doctors seem to have embraced the airlines' model for doing business -- you know, the one where they now charge fees for things they used to just do for free.
About a month ago, I was standing in front of the Woodstock display at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland Ohio when it happened again. A guy about my age, wearing a baseball cap over what I assumed was a balding head, sized me up and asked: 'So, were you there?' I nodded 'yes' and then what happened is pretty much what always happens.
Sometimes, I just don't get people. I mean, we all share the same planet and that alone means we need to be aware of overlapping into the personal space of others, right? So with that in mind, I would like to call out a few folks who, to my way of thinking, broke some planet rules.
There's lots of discussion these days about what to call people as they grow older. Nobody likes 'elderly'; 'senior' and 'senior citizen' are a scant improvement over 'elderly'; and we can argue till the cows come home exactly what 'older person' means. I'm fine with using my actual age as a descriptor. I'm a '64-year-old.' Period. What I'm not fine with is being called 'adorable.'
My doctor gave me one of those heart-to-heart talks: You need to lose some weight and exercise more, he said. The "or else" was implied. I know that being overweight increases your risk of heart disease, diabetes, strokes, and a million other bad things. But I just had to ask: Am I really overweight?
Forget trips to the psychic. Increasingly, Facebook has become our conduit for talking to the dearly departed.
The voice message left on our home phone sounded very convincing. Authoritative and with a hint of menace, the caller said that the IRS Crime Investigations Unit was about to file charges for tax evasion against us -- but if we called them back right away and could explain a few things to the caller, perhaps our imminent prosecution could be averted. But only if we called him back right away.