As a youngster, I would bring in the newspaper and give my mother the sections she had first dibs on while I’d pore over the rest. I would kid her about reading the obituaries. “You’ll see,” she replied.
My mom’s math was to compute the difference between the deceased’s age and hers. I didn’t think it was either relevant or uplifting. I prefer positive role models.
A friend of mine died this week. He ran the airport well and was a great guy. I caught myself noticing he was eight years older than me. Not a point to focus upon.
“You must have a thing for me,” Liz kidded me this morning at the pool. She was alluding to the fact that I had shifted swimming laps with my usual cronies to her schedule.
The change was intentional. The people I was swimming with made me feel fast. Liz kicks my butt. It’s a better gauge for knowing how much work I need to do.
I’m not young, but Liz is 10 years older and in great shape. That’s something to shoot for.
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