Contrary to sited scientific opinion (below) however, I am not 32. Not by a longshot.
When I was a kid, and whenever I wanted to know when I could wear nylons, or ride a bike or date boys or something, my father always would would say "When you're 32 you can do that." I really never did get to wear nylons much, though--they invented pantyhose at just the right moment. Still, I grew up expecting 32 to be a very good year. As far as I can remember, which I can't, it wasn't what it was cracked up to be. But now it seems they tell me I am stuck in it.
Better than 52, though, it must have been. Glad that one's over. Looking forward to this one. In confusion, I put hand cream on my aging face this morning and now I smell like cocoa and mangoes. Evidently, impending senility can be delicious. And I don't mean red hats which, incidently, I wore well before 32 and, sadly, must now put away all because of some idiotic marketing trend my cousins railed against most vociferously at the Mall on the day after xmas. Next weekend we go to Ocala for tea. For my birthday.
MLK day: listen to WWOZ (Click "Hear!")
1 comment:
Happy birthday! Cocoa and mangos, eh? I'll have to blog later about a hand lotion from Hawaii you might like.
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