Clock in, clock out

Oh my, it’s been over a month since I’ve posted.
Why?
Well.
Busy with family. Yes they do come first.
And I am unbelievably busy at the job I hate love.
Because I am so physically taxed at work I am totally spent by the end of my work day.

I rise at 4:45am, at work by 7. (I squeeze in email corralling and FB during my early breakfast.) For the next nine hours I am trekking 4 to 5 miles, bending, lifting and doing what I physically have to do to get a paycheck. Ten years ago I’d say, “…my job keeps me fit”, now I think it’s just plain wearing me down. Though it sounds like it, I am not complaining.

Like my husband says, “it is what it is.”

My point in sharing this tale of woe is that ‘my tired’ has effected my writing time. I’m editing a not-sure-what-to-call-it and working on my column. I’m trying to read and research and live up to ancillary obligations, which means posting has fallen far down the list.

But, here I am.

Why?
Well.
Because words feed me oxygen.
I have tomorrow off.
Tonight I breathe.

Have you ever been suffocated by obligation and how did you get catch your breath?

I wrote this for FB and just had to 2N it too

For those who remember a time when rolling stones, beetles and the four seasons meant rocks, bugs and times of the year, this is for you.  

You know you’re getting old when “youth” is that thing you realize you wasted, when you saw your kids doing the exact same thing, just before they had kids.

If you walk into a room, and can’t remember why you walked in, it’s not an age thing, unless the room you enter is the bathroom.

Old means, never having to say you’re sorry you forgot, because you never heard what was said anyway.

You’re getting old if each year you have to recalculate your age when it’s your birthday.

If you are old, sell-by dates don’t matter because beginning and end dates don’t mean much when you can’t remember today’s date.

You are old if the new high school you attended was torn down and replaced, and your grandchildren graduated from the new one, years ago.

If your teachers teach your grandchildren, have retired, or died you’re old.

If your teenage hangout is the new senior center, you’re old.

If to you, Dwight means Ike, not Gooden, you’re old.

And, you know you’re getting up in years if you remember when mammogram was a telegram to your mother and PSA meant Public Service Announcement.

And especially for women:

If you call Spanx a girdle, you’re old.

If a thong line reminds you of a sanitary belt line, you are most definitely old.

If you remember when undergarments were called underwear, boots were called rubbers and rubbers were erasers, you’re old.

If you were told using a tampon meant you’d lose your virginity, and you believed it, you’re not only old, you’re clueless.

You’re getting old if you sneeze, cough and laugh and for the rest of the day you feel like you’re wearing a wet bathing suit during the long ride home after a day at the beach.

You know you’re getting old when you think aches and pains are as inevitable as menopause.

At the risk of embarrassing my daughters, alienating my son-in-law’s, mortifying my current and future grandchildren and estranging my husband let me conclude that sex for old folks is lot like getting a good night’s sleep. It’s something you talk about a lot, seldom get and can’t remember the last time you had a good one anyway