Author: Bev

I’m half technologically savvy and half old-school.  I’m HAPA, a Hawaiian word for half, usually used to describe people of mixed ethnicity.

I keep getting spam phone calls from my business accounting software company, “Your most recent update has failed.”  Yep.  You’re darn tootin it has, because I didn’t update.

You see, I’m quite satisfied with the performance of my accounting software, just as it is.  I don’t need it fixed in any way.  According to this Goldilocks, it’s just right.

I honestly use probably one third of that software’s capability.  This is where I’m half old-school and half electronic.  I manually make deposits, well half-manual since I might make automatic electronic payments or I take cell phone pictures of checks, but I don’t use the software to do that for me.  I could, but I don’t.

So, I don’t want another fancy or complicated update to throw a monkey wrench into my well-oiled accounting machine.  Thank you but no thanks.  I’m good.

Every time my husband and I see a notice on any of our many electronic devices that an update is available, imminent, or happening now, we cringe a little bit and there’s probably some eye-rolling involved.  We hate updates.  There’s always a mess to be cleaned up afterwards.

Too many times, everything is wacko after an update.  It has taken days to retrieve material that had been scattered in the wind of an update.  Sometimes all you could do to accommodate an update was to turn it off, unplug, then reboot.

Do we need such frequent updates?  Wouldn’t once a year be enough to keep us current?

It sometimes feels like I just got used to the changes from the last update, when a new update comes along.   Few things stay the same; except for Jesus Christ, who is said to be “the same yesterday, today, and forever.”

Whatever happened to the notion, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?”  Ironically, it was Bert Lance, Jimmy Carter’s Director of the Office of Management and Budget, who popularized that saying in print.    Lance’s comment formalized his criticism of the government for trying to fix things that weren’t broken.  Now we’ve got a new governmental department of oversight, the DOGE, and here we are, dealing with updates out the yin-yang.

There are updates for everything.  Television, cell phones, social media, computer programs and software, auto electronics, even our job descriptions and expectations scream loudly to be updated, constantly.

Is it so terrible to be dated?  Some of the dated stuff wasn’t so awful.  Take the telephone, for instance.  I remember a green desktop box type phone with a rotary dial that we had when I was a teenager.

It was the time of the party line which meant that our neighbor from across the river might have been on the phone at any time we picked up the receiver to use the phone.  Listening in was possible but not kosher.  However, many a naughty “busybody,” probably a term coined just to describe the gossip circle of mostly ladies who listened in on others with whom they shared a telephone line, breached the party line etiquette.

I secretly wished we had the fancier wall phone, another box but a vertical rectangle, less square than our box with the rounded edges.  These were both updates, however, for the old-fashioned black desk models of old.

The first cell phones were almost too big to hold in your hand.  They looked very much like a massive walkie-talkie type radio with a big antenna.  But it was an upgrade from a hand-held radio, and it was helpful while driving or away from the landline at home.

Our first cell phone was a safety item to accompany our tween aged daughter through a half dozen back yards between our house and her grandma’s house.  It’s been updated a dozen times since then.

I was particularly fond of a candy apple red slider phone on which I could type text messages like lightning with both thumbs, sort of like typing on a full-sized keyboard.  But that phone couldn’t be upgraded anymore and became obsolete.  Boo-hoo.

I still can’t manage typing with both thumbs on my current iPhone.  I peck with my elderly right index finger, which I’m told might be a baby boomer evolution of using the rotary phone.

My iPhone updated again recently.  I’m not crazy about some new configurations of my email landing pages.

Sometime when I can carve out about an hour to work on it, I’ll try to see what I can do to find a new normal with that.  Update – I nearly accidentally found how to revert to the old email landing page.  So, that’s taken care of.

It’s always something when you’re dealing with updates.  I guess they’re here to stay and I’ll have to trade in my comfortable classic flare for the most up to date feature of whatever it is I’m connected to.  But then again there’s not a thing wrong with being HAPA.

 

 

 

 

Taking a trip is embarking on a journey.  If it’s a vacation, your journey could be to the next town over or taking a world cruise.  If your journey is a trip and fall, your journey may be shockingly short, moving from an upright position to a prone one, in the blink of an eye.

Have you ever tripped over your own feet?  Tell me that at least once you tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and to save face you looked around like there was something huge in your path that anyone would have tripped over.

Years ago, I had some sort of issues with my feet and when I walked a familiar hiking path, the small acorns strewn on the ground hurt my feet as if they were massive rocks.  Recently, the tiniest pebble dragged inside from the outdoors hurt my sock-clad foot when I stepped on it in our dining room.

I said to myself, “how could such a tiny thing hurt so much?”  But it’s happened before.  You shouldn’t be surprised by something little causing a bigger ruckus than its size would suggest.

What is it about the potential of little things to cause a big issue?  “Nobody trips over mountains.  It is the small pebble that causes you to stumble.”

Maybe it’s because we’re prepared for a mountain climb to be challenging.  We’re not so prepared for a tiny hillock to give us such formidable trouble.

More than once I’ve fallen on an icy hill that in the summertime was a slight incline.  We’re not prepared for little nuances to make a difference.  They can.

Common sense would have us believe that to get tripped up over something, it should be something large and ominous like a mountain.  But we should have noticed with experience that that’s not what usually happens.  It’s the little thing.

However, just because you stumble doesn’t mean you fall.  Just because you trip doesn’t mean you’re going down for the count.

In fact, the origins of the word “trip,” points to being nimble, stepping lightly, or dancing.  My outdoor hiking sometimes looks, if anyone were to see, like I’m dancing all over the path.

There’s a cool scripture from Psalm 18:33 which says, “He makes me as surefooted as a deer, enabling me to stand on mountain heights.”  This visual has been confirmed by various documentaries where you can see deer, mountain goats, and other four-legged types dancing without a care in the world, along what seems a treacherous mountain path to us two-legged observers.

“Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill,” they say.  Obstacles come in all shapes and sizes and they’re often not obvious.  Sometimes a little mole hole might as well be a gully the size of the grand canyon when you’re looking up at trees or the sky or just straight ahead; and you trip over it.

Stumbling blocks or steppingstones?  I guess it’s all in how you look at things.  Either way, your feet are propelling you forward.  Rarely when you trip, will you fall backward.

I once fell in a crosswalk while leaving a grocery store.  I was happy to wait until vehicles had passed, but a rather impatient woman, frantically waved me across while she waited at the little stop sign posted at the crosswalk.  To accommodate her gesture, I trotted into the crosswalk and promptly fell over myself.

It was embarrassing to say the least.  What a klutz.  I didn’t know just yet, but I dropped my debit card in the hubbub of people running to the aid of the elderly woman who fell down on the road.

If she hadn’t rushed me.  Or, maybe what happened after wouldn’t have had the chance to have impacted a couple of us.  I got into the car and about to go to the next errand, I noticed that my debit card was missing.  I went into the store to check if the remote possibility of someone turning my card into the authorities had happened.  It did.  A kind soul turned it in, giving them and me an opportunity to observe a good deed.

“How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news…” – Isaiah 5:2   Have you ever considered that your feet have options?  Our feet can carry us forward toward a good future.  They can carry us away from danger or calamity.  They can assist our navigation of rocky terrain, help us to stand firm in hope of what’s next, and adjust from walking on one kind of surface to another, in an attitudinal instant.

So to finish the pebble versus mountain quote, I wish everyone the blessing that you will “pass all the pebbles in your path and you will find you have crossed the mountain.”  And to you and me both, I’m hoping that when we walk, our “steps will not be hampered; and if we run, we will not stumble.” – Proverbs 4:12

 

 

 

Surely, we all know or have known a few Renaissance people.  These are the folks who know a little about a lot of things.  Well-rounded is an apt description.

Leonardo di Vinci was considered the archetype of the fourteenth to seventeenth century, homo universalis, ideal “Renaissance man.”  Known primarily for his accomplishments as an artist, di Vinci was also a gifted scientist and inventor.

The definitive “Renaissance man,” di Vinci was skilled across fields as well as knowledgeable beyond his obvious and well-known works.  He came up in the time of the Renaissance when the rebirth of classical (Greek and Roman) education had fertilized his inquiring mind.

I could name a handful of Renaissance people born right here and in our time.  However, I won’t name them because often, they’re humble and would be embarrassed to be mentioned in a public forum.   But I will mention a man, now deceased, who my husband and I often referred to as our “Renaissance man,” Jerry Leeds.

Jerry could fix anything and he could talk, talk, talk about any topic from what’s the best fertilizer for grapes to that symphonic piece you just published, the African Methodist church service last week, to how to fix that small engine that just conked out.  Jerry was well-versed in many disciplines and not all talk; he applied his vast knowledge to the work of his hands.

Being educated formally in the liberal arts or humanities: history, cultural studies, critical thinking, languages, philosophy, social and religious studies, grammar; and generally learning figuratively, where humans have come from and where we’re headed, helps us to fall into the role of Renaissance people.  However, formal education is not the only education.

Necessity breeds resourcefulness and many a Renaissance person had no choice but to “learn how to do it or else.”  Also, travel exposes one to the potential to know a little about a lot.  Willingness and openness to learn is a prerequisite for becoming a Renaissance person.  Apprenticeship with a Renaissance person can by example, mold one into the same.

”Renaissance man,” is not a sexist term nor concept.  This was/is a man in the sense of human, not a person of the male gender.  Many women are Renaissance people.  In fact, I would venture an educated guess that many women are such.

Women have the potential to be the most holistic creatures on earth.  Bearing another human from your body, I dare say, requires something of you beyond the physical.  Having children or not having children does not automatically make you a Renaissance person.  However, bearing a child and raising said child predisposes you toward learning  a little about a lot and then teaching this information to your child.

If you can cook creatively with nothing, sew and mend anything, build a deck, house or carport, do your own taxes, grow food and flowers, lead a committee, do some basic accounting, exercise compassion toward others, navigate the internet and multiple customer service representatives, know God, play an instrument, sing, dance, counsel others who are hurting, nurse their wounds, solve a thousand intersecting problems, read a book or a thousand, appreciate nature and artistic beauty, speak effectively in a meeting or a crowd, and a host of other necessities in life, I think you’re a Renaissance person  I know a few women and men who fit this bill.

You might ask why do I care about being a Renaissance person or that you are one?  If you are a well-rounded individual, you are in a greater position to contribute to society.  Thus, your potential for life-satisfaction is multiplied because you have more resources to draw from when reality gets harsh.

Life is easier when you can recall a song, a poem, a Bible verse, an apropos word or phrase in Spanish, French, or Italian, to address a current sticky situation.  A particular painting, a re-read of a favorite book, a walk in the woods or along a beach, a home-cooked meal or baked good, crafting a piece, pounding a nail, or some such release of skill, might be just the thing to make you smile.  That’s when you’re grateful to be a Renaissance person.

 

At three years old, or is it five, most children incessantly ask why.  “Why do I have to brush my teeth?”  “Why is it raining?”  “Why does the Easter Bunny bring eggs?”  Why, why, why?

Then comes high school in the blink of an eye.  There you learn the all-important W-words.  We learned in English class back in the day, the five W’s and one H word of journalism.  These are the questions we were expected to ask and answer to gain information to supply the substance of any journalistic piece.

Who, what, when, where, why and how?  So, into adulthood, we carry on the question-asking habit, only if the most prevalent questions remaining in our arsenal are why and what for?

“What for,” must have been another traditional kid-interrogative sentence because adults created a punishment for asking it too much.  It went like this “I’m gonna give you what for if you keep that up!”

If you were punished for no reason, you might reasonably ask, “for what am I being punished?”  What for?  In response, the punisher might say, “I’ll give you ‘what for’” as the nebulous reason.  Your inquiry is thusly stopped.

If you are a person with a naturally “wondering” personality, you might get “what for” for asking “why” too much. This reminds me of a quote I recently came across and jotted down because of my wondering ways.  “For your peace of mind do not try to understand everything.”

Fill in the blank and make a note of how many times this week, you’ve said either to yourself or someone else, “I don’t understand why…”.  Maybe the answer to why is the customary tired parent’s answer to the why-question, “just because.”

That answer has evolved into the highly philosophical version of “just because,” “it is what it is.”  Back in the day we said, “everything is everything,” as a bit of a jab at the answers posited by the Mother Earth folks among us.

Don’t get me wrong, questions are a vital form of effective communication.  Curiosity doesn’t always kill the cat, in fact frequently curiosity gleans dinner for the cat if not a smidgen of fun.

The way we analyze situations, make informed decisions, understand and process incoming data, and discover answers behind doors number one through a zillion, is by asking questions if only in our minds.

My husband is a question-asking conversationalist, the best in the business.  When I’m happy to move right along, my husband is back in aisle seven asking someone another open-ended question, and he sincerely cares to know the answer.

Interrogative is another word for question.  Just like wonder is a form of ethereal questioning and the root word of wonderful, interrogations are questioning sessions, received often with resistance.

To our daughter, dad’s questions often feel like interrogation.  And she resists.

Interrogation by detectives is a way of getting vital answers to solve crimes.  This kind of questioning, being drilled for information, sometimes being asked the same question in different forms, repeatedly, is potentially off-putting.

But questions are the information-gathering substance of life.  Don’t you want to know more than what is spoon-fed to you by your daily walkabout?

Speaking of substance, or the lack thereof, from the looks of social media or general media, the questions people want answered are ludicrous and have nothing to do with life improvement.  In fact, this information used to be considered just nosiness and was inquired only by busy bodies.

I’m talking about dumb stuff like, what celebrity is getting divorced, who’s sleeping with their nanny, did she/he have facial surgery, are those breasts real or glued-on, who just bought another multi-million-dollar house, etc.  The slogan, “inquiring minds want to know,” was once only associated with worthless, rag journalism.

Today, however, there are substantive questions like, is there a new drug in the works to affect higher quality of life for Alzheimer’s patients and has the cancer gene been isolated.  But they get buried below what is this or that celebrity’s favorite color.  Oh, my goodness.

We are free to ask dumb questions.  I guess if I’m fair, I should agree with the teachers who say, “there is no dumb question,” but really, “like…what color nail polish does Kylie Jenner wear?”

My question would be, “why?”

 

I won’t go so far as to say that this year has been a terrible, awful, horrible year, because it has had its wonderful moments.  But turning the page on this chapter won’t be difficult.  I’m happy to move on.

Before too long, I’ll be saying goodbye to my sixties.  I can truthfully say that I’ve never felt old, until this year.

I’m not a fan of bugs.  They didn’t used to offend me so much.  I never gave a bug a funeral, but I didn’t kill them willy-nilly either.

I throw stinkbugs outside.  I’ve been known to let a bug or two live, indoors and I never kill them in their own territory, outdoors.

I happen to enjoy the outdoors, the natural habitat of bugs.  I don’t love gnats and other pesky bugs buzzing around my face when I’m trying to hike in the summer.  Nor do I treasure walking into a sticky spider web along the trail.

But this year, my bug tolerance was piqued, and I’ve about had it.  In late spring or early summer, I noticed a growing red spot on the back of my knee.  Upon further examination, it wasn’t just a bug bite of which I’ve had zillions.  In this case the whole back of my knee was a massive, bright red patch.

Several of my acquaintances warned me that spider bites can be serious, so I thought perhaps I should call the doctor.  However, as often happens to me when I need my doctor, it’s late evening, a weekend, holiday, or the doctor has gone on vacation.

In consultation with my health insurance company, I was hooked up with a doctor in my system via telemedicine.  I guess my telephone camera was sharp enough, that after seeing the back of my knee, the doctor said she could see the fang marks of a spider bite.  In addition, this one had turned into cellulitis, a potentially deleterious and serious reaction to the bite.

Okay, great.  The upside was that she called into my pharmacy a prescription for an antibiotic that I was able to pick up immediately and start pumping into my compromised bloodstream.

It worked.  So off to the races I went toward the thick of summertime, with a bit more caution in my step when outdoors, walking my walk.

However, just as I began to exhale, another bug must have attacked me, covertly.  Just like that nasty spider, a stealthy tick must have bitten me unnoticed.

After some routine lab tests to monitor the arthritis which kicks up its heels from time to time, particularly in my hands, knees, hips, and lower back – some of the major parts which are intended to keep me moving about this planet – Lyme Disease was detected.  What?

That was surprising since I’ve checked for ticks after every walk in or near the woods, or even jaunts through our sort of vast yard.  And I didn’t find any attached to any part of my body.

Well, it must have been there because Lyme Disease is no joke and it had been present apparently long enough to make itself known in the form of Lyme Arthritis, an extension of the Osteoarthritis which reminds me that I’m growing older.  Thanks for that, tick.

I’ve already said that I’m not a fan of bugs, but it bears repeating.  It’s been a heck of a year, and that bugs me.

Then I got Covid.  Everybody’s experience of Rona is different, but it’s always a bugger.

For me, along with the gift of Covid came brain fog, substantial fatigue, and previously unknown to me, a little thing called Post Covid Hypertension.  That was unexpected.

The mind-numbing and body deflating fatigue which can accompany Covid, did accompany it and lingered.  Having celebrated the minor symptoms of the actual bug, it was in hindsight probably premature.  Long COVID or the lingering effects of the bug are no picnic.

One of my favorite Christmas hymns that Bing Crosby made into a hit in 1963, is “Do you hear what I hear… do you see what I see…” do you smell what I smell.  That last part is my own Covid era addition to the song.

Post Covid, some people experience a partial or complete loss of smell.  Not me.  I get to smell something that isn’t there.  It’s called phantosmia, as the word implies, it’s phantom smells, a disorder in your nose.  I smell cooked meat, mostly at night.  The Covid bug seems to love gaslighting people, making us feel like we’re crazy.

It’s been a real riot around here, coping with Covid, that bug of all bugs, a second time this fall, early winter.  I’m literally sick and tired of bugs.  But as I usually do, I still walk my walk.

You’ve heard the word, “hangry” which is a new word which combines two other words, in this case, hungry plus angry.  Hangry is nothing compared to “tiremotional,” which is my made-up word combining the two words, tired and emotional.  And there’s “tireanky,” which is tired plus cranky.

I have plans to keep dragging my tiremotional, tireanky self into 2025, expecting to conquer whatever bugs turn up.  Perhaps 2025 can be the year of the bug-buster.

 

 

There is so much movement in our culture and in this time.  I’m afraid we often just don’t sit down until we’re sat down.

There’s so much to do, so little time.  Everybody is busy.

I first thought of titling this missive “movement.”  Then on second thought, it occurred to me that movement felt tied to bowel movement and that’s just not a writerly phrase that I wish to be associated with.

However, movement is just what kinesiology is the study of.  And this, I’m quite happy to be known for discussing.

There are moments when I’m out speed walking or walk-jogging and I consciously think, “my body feels so good, moving.”  It’s a visceral feel-good reaction to movement.

Dancing is another movement that my body, mind, and spirit rejoice in.  I admit I don’t dance often, but there are moments when I do and my mind and spirit both soar when I give in to the inclination.

Watching my grand-baby dance brings back memories of my daughter doing the same at that fresh age.  I think dancing and movement in general frees oneself to express joy, sadness, longing, excitement, fun, if not something deeper within that requires movement.

It occurs to me that the rhythm of life is ramped up these days.  I am growing older, and it also biases me toward mentally wanting things to slow down.

This past year has peaked my awareness that my body naturally moves slower.  I don’t like it.  It’s an adjustment.

I changed my pattern from sitting to standing and standing to walking.  Those bodily transitions have slowed and it’s a more deliberate move than it ever was.  I literally think about standing and notice for a few seconds that I’m about to commence walking.

This is crazy weird for me.  I’ve been active my whole life.  I rarely slow down and couch-potato, I am not.

Are you slower as you grow older?  Was it a sudden change?  Was it hard to accept?

Society is rushing along as fast as it can, it seems.  I don’t think I’m afraid it will pass me by.

I don’t want to forget people, in the rush to keep up.  I love my family, both nuclear and extended.  But we rarely see one another these days.

These loved ones are static in my heart.  They are no less important kept in my heart than they are in my living room.  That’s one of the zillion cool things about love.

I like that my friends, neighbors, acquaintances, and others who pass through our lives don’t need constant tending.  We can run into one another and pick up right where we left off the last time we intersected.

This is the reality of the twenty-first century.  There’s no recrimination for being off the grid momentarily.  We can jump right back on the bandwagon when we’re ready.

Missing in action isn’t as scary as it once was.  Today, though missing for a time, most folks come back, perhaps changed but retaining their essence.

Just because someone isn’t in the thick of things doesn’t mean they’re out of sight, out of mind.  Quite the opposite really.

The whole definition of faith is believing that the unseen is just as valid as the visible.  So, when people need space for whatever reason, we should expect to see them whenever they’re ready to reappear.

Of course I need people.  I love people.  However, I’m also quite content alone, for a time.

Back in the day we used to visit extended family every Sunday.  And it was expected that you visited the elderly in your family.  I went along.

I don’t expect the same as I daily grow closer to that dastardly pseudonym, the elderly.  My child and her family are not expected to come and visit me and my hubby.  They come when they can and that’s enough.

I watch cop/detective shows on television.  One annoying plot that frequently shows up is the unhappy spouse of the exceptionally busy cop who is out there solving murders and the like.  Can’t you just leave them to it, be supportive, and do your own thing?

Honestly, I want to slap that spouse and tell them to get a life.  “You knew what you were getting into marrying a detective,” find something to do.

It’s that constant tending that I as a very independent person find aggravating.  I love you but I don’t need you to entertain me, no matter how old I get.

So, keep doing your thing, moving at your own pace.  I’ll keep doing my thing and moving at my own gait. And I really hope we intersect and lift one another up as we pass in this busy space we share.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It Ain’t Necessarily So,”* that the beholder of a smile is happy.  Nor is happiness always reflected in a smile.  *(from the opera Porgy and Bess 1935, George and Ira Gershwin)

What is happiness anyway, contentment, joy, giddiness, bliss?  At any rate, happiness and smiles are probably correlated, or related, but one does not really cause the other.

However, I do think it’s proven scientifically that if you force a smile, certain happy hormones, or endorphins kick in as if you meant it.  It apparently doesn’t matter if you’re faking a smile or if you’re genuinely pleased about something, thus cracking a smile; fluffy chemicals supercharge your being.

The thinking is that when your facial muscles form a smile, neurotransmitters such as dopamine, serotonin and endorphins, associated with positive emotion, are released.  This is called a facial feedback hypothesis, and over time, this feedback trend can lead to genuine feelings.

“When you’re smiling, the whole world smiles with you” (1928).  I think smiles are truly contagious.  I’m sure it has been proven in various experiments over time.  It’s hard to be a sourpuss when someone smiles at you.  But then there are always exceptions.

Have you ever wondered why people didn’t smile for photographs in the 19^th and twentieth centuries?  The usual answer is that with long exposure times unlike today’s instant photography, people just couldn’t hold a smile for a whole minute.  Try it.

I know, while we’re waiting for the whole family to pose, my smile grows more and more fake the longer I hold it.  So, people didn’t smile for those photos.  It all began with painted portraits for which people sat for hours, posing.

However, cultural history also tells us that perceptions of smiling have changed over time.  Smiling for photographs was considered poor etiquette and undignified by the upper classes.  Only the poor, drunk, lewd and folks of the low class smiled in photographs.

This was until the 1920s when actors in motion pictures expressed a whole range of emotions.  After this time, photographers and painters alike began to expect at least a little bit of a smile from their subjects.  “Say cheese.”

The yellow smiley face symbol, created by graphic designer Harvey Ball in 1963 has become a universal symbol for happiness.  I guess the smiley face was the parent of today’s plethora of emoji’s including the smiley face, which demonstrate how we’re feeling.

For most of us, our faces are the blank slates upon which we display what we’re feeling on the inside.  I saw the perfect saying on social media recently, “I don’t need a Mood Ring, I have a Face!”

When we grow up, we learn how to behave and how to think, including how to show our emotions.  People read emotions differently to some degree, depending on how, when, or where we were brought up.

However, the ability to read emotions from faces is pretty much a universal skill.  Even people from different cultural backgrounds interpret facial expressions about the same.

There can be a dozen things going wrong with you and when someone asks, “how are you,” you usually smile and at least say, “okay.”  I saw this on social media recently and it pretty much explains this phenomenon, “I smile and act like nothing is wrong.  It’s called dealing with life and staying strong.”

In today’s world, you can hit delete quickly if you’re not happy with your smile.  That makes me a tad happy.

I’ve been sorting thousands of family pictures of old and oh dear, some of them really should not have been kept for posterity, really.  Some amateur photographers, usually “mom,” took pictures without considering that their subject wasn’t framed in their best self.

Thus, the selfie was born.  I personally think this was because of all those horrid pictures mom took and kept in an album or twenty.  The selfie is redemptive.

A crooked smile, delete.  A triple chin angle, delete.  I now hate that shirt, delete.  Finally, my best smile, best angle, good hair day, tummy is tucked as much as it can be.  It’s a selfie at its best and I’m posting it on social media.

You’ve got something to smile about, I know it.  Just ponder a moment, and I’ll bet you’ll smile just in time for Thanksgiving.