I hope. I feel better. Not like young again, or even 80, but like almost 92 and determined to keep going until I’m called.
Those of you who are still there, hang in. I’m going to start thinking again. Soon.
No promises
—and t’s a good thing. Some of the people I swim with had an early birthday party for me because some of them are going to be in warmer places in February. I am replete with good wishes and chocolate cake.
Better.
Yup. Sunday, the 22nd. New York Times Sunday, when I feel guilt-free, almost, about spending so much time with something not immediately productive—only in my mind, no use to anyone but me.
Matt is coming for a swim and dinner today, so I will be busy, and sore. At least I’m not coughing my guts out;. I’ m doing my best—and my best is none too good.
Anon, anon.
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