The trouble with having good genes and living healthy is that when you finally face some problems that plague others at younger ages, it takes you by total surprise, because you have always “been young” and you aren’t used to being any other way. It is also sobering to view the obits since so many are younger than I am.

So it is that my recent medical problems have caused me to rethink the whole idea of being invulnerable. Yes, I was so deluded.

But realizing this and internalizing it and behaving differently, is still beyond me. I can’t suddenly be someone else. It appears I am an incurable Pollyanna. And when Ed is driving us somewhere and starts to rage because we are “lost, lost, doomed,” I say something like, “Hey, this is fun, it’s an adventure, I’ve never seen this neighborhood before.”

Even when I am dismayed, as I was, to be hospitalized recently and find myself in the company of those who really are never going to be better, I refuse to identify. I thought once I might have a T shirt made with the legend, “When the grim reaper comes for me, he had better be armed.” But Dylan Thomas said it so much more gracefully, when, in writing about his dying father, he wrote, “Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” and in his poem “Mutability”, Shelley lamented the passing of our too short lives … “What is this world’s delight, lightning that mocks the night, brief even as bright.”

On a lighter note, I made jokes with my internist when Ed and I saw him last week. He was nice enough to include me in his appointment schedule with Ed, who was there for his annual. I remarked, “Would you go to see a group calling itself Nora and the Pinephrines?” Ed sat there, unmoved, and the doc was laughing and said to him, “Hey, come on, that was funny.”

Then the doctor reviewed the notes the neurologist had made when he saw me in the hospital and said, “oh, I see you did a dance step for him.” I was amused that he had included that, so I guess he was impressed. I did a gliding foot to foot, with a jump beating front, landing back. It’s my effort to get people to see me as me instead of looking at the numbers and telling me to go sit in a rocker and prepare for “the end”.

I have had to pace myself lately because even though my headache/balance symptoms are abated, they are not quite gone, cropping up when I am tired. I went to the park after months of not doing it, and did exercises on the railing. I have been doing stretches and ballet steps and jumps at home so I am not out of shape. Still, it’s a different rigor and my rib cage is sore. So this morning, I did weights, and some minimal stretches and started the coffee. Yesterday I had an ear ache, left side, with Eustachian tube pain that waxed and waned through the night. My throat is still a bit achy, so I am resting to nip it in the bud.

On another matter, the boutiques on the big road sell local artwork and some of it is just kitsch – wall plaque signs with witty sayings, designy artwork, etc. Much of it is done on wood that is gotten at Home Depot or Lowe’s. The clerk, Debbie, a friend who has been over for lunch, said she would sell whatever I make if I want to join in. I stagnate with artwork because I am a severe critic of my efforts and my skill has for years been neglected with the notable exception of the art class in the park I took for a while. But this stuff is so simple that I could do it. So I think I will. My stuff would have more of an edge. I have been collecting witty sayings for years and none of them have anything to do with “happy hour,” a recurring and overworked theme down here (“Somewhere it’s 5 o’clock, drink up.”) Now all that remains is that I actually do it.

Here is one of the two Frills shops on the road -- Debbie works in the other one up the street, but they are basically the same ...



Let’s face it, I am talking about junk (the clothes are okay, jewelry, low end but imaginative), but I don’t mind doing something that might bring in some change. And in case, you haven’t noticed, a lot of tourists buy junk, as witness the enduring success of Hallmark.

xx, Teal