Author: Bev

I broke a fingernail. My “perfect” fingernails walked seamlessly into the realm of reality the day before Easter.  It happened incognito.  The middle one, you know the one, appeared maimed to its jagged edge, which you could barely call an edge since it was emaciated right to the quick.

Unusual for my modus operandi, I said, “oh well,” tidied it up and moved on.  There was a time, back in the land of perfectionism, that I would have been compelled to cut all of my nails very short to accommodate that one broken one.

Wouldn’t it be appalling if someone should notice this lack of order, consistency, balance or perfection in me, right?  If they notice at all, does anybody really care, beyond “oh, you broke a nail?”

Atelophobia, the fear of imperfection, is probably a somewhat self-conscious fear, thinking that people notice you more than they actually do.  Sadly, most people are more concerned about themselves than they are about you

I wonder if all perfectionism is in some sense trying, without success, to accommodate brokenness because we can’t maintain perfection indefinitely?  After all, one definition of perfect, is “excellent, beyond practical.”

Is it enough to maintain a perfect façade?  The house might be crumbling inside, but if the outside looks good, all is well.  Or so it seems.

Expectation, accommodation and adaptation to reality might be the real circle of life, as it turns out.  If I’m honest, I didn’t really expect my nails to all stay one length, looking perfect, for long.  Experience tells a more realistic story.

I don’t know what day it was but one day something clicked in me and I decidedly preferred peace over perfection.  I became a utilitarian after having been an idealist for eons.

I was a teenage idealist.  It seems that sometime along the line, I lowered my standards of excellence.  “Lower your standards,” someone shouted.  “For shame!”

Whoa, hold on a minute.  Who set those standards to begin with?  Me thinks it was me, when I was an idealist.  I’ve since, relinquished my mental perfection-detection meter and re-defined certain minor flaws as a variation of normal.

For a Sociology course I taught, I studied utopian communities of the 19^th century.  Do you have, or your family had, Oneida silverware, an Amana refrigerator or freezer, or a Shaker cabinet or ladder-back chair?  All three of these renowned crafts are products from utopian communities.  They were idealists who no longer remain as living, contemporary communities.

Idealists lose steam because the reality is that any philosophy which demands perfection and rejects anything less, will fail the test of time.  People are flawed.  No one can conform absolutely to the highest degree of excellence, consistently and forever.

Excellence has degrees.  You’ve heard the increments: good, better, best.  It has been said that “the perfect is the enemy of the good.”  Or, as Voltaire said, “The best is the enemy of the good.”  Confucius said, “Better a diamond with a flaw than a pebble without.”

The drive toward perfection can be a good thing because it may just result in a great thing.  But the dark side of the pursuit of perfection is the persistent attitude that says, “if it’s not perfect, it’s not right.”  This translates to, “I’m not right, or good enough.”

Enough is a parallel concept of perfection.  When is good, good enough?

Can you stop on the road to perfection and say, that’s good enough?  Can you stop the car, at good?  Can you conclude, “I’m good?”

When is enough, enough?  Ancient Taoist philosopher, Lao Tzu (Laozi) says, “There is no greater sin than desire, no greater curse than discontent, no greater misfortune than wanting something for oneself.  Therefore, he who knows that enough is enough will always have enough.”

Someone once said perfectionism is a waste of time since twenty percent of your effort gleans eighty percent of your desired result.  Does eighty percent  work for you?

I noticed a column by one of my compatriots, blasting those of us who are moderates, as not caring enough to take a stand.  Unafraid, she has taken a solid stand and that’s admirable.  It is clear where she stands and clarity is good in communication.

I, on the other hand would make a poor politician or activist.  I guess I see too much of value from most every perspective.

I have always considered myself chameleon-like, able to adapt to people of every ilk, from the elite to the humble, finding worth in every soul.  If I had a little girl, yes, a girl, I would probably buy her the new “you can be anything” mermaid Barbie, that when dipped in water, changes color.

Those of us in the moderate middle have also taken a stand.  See, I took a stand in the last paragraph, stating that I would buy a Barbie for my little girl and probably wouldn’t buy one for my boy.

The concept of taking a stand originates with the military, holding their position against an enemy.  Make no mistake, there are enemies to the right and to the left of where I stand.

Extremes are the enemy of the moderate, who maintains a position of reasonable limits, resisting the extremes of both the right and the left.  We in the middle, have an ability to see the merit in points of view that reside all over the map.  We believe in pulling those worthy ideas, philosophies, theories, and actions into our stand.

We get stuff done through mitigation, restraint and control.  The ineluctable moderate is the only just winner in the battle between the extremes.

Bridge Over Troubled Water, the Simon & Garfunkel song from 1970(Paul Simon), comes to mind.  What would we do without bridges?  They connect us from one side of the gorge between us, to the other.  The moderate is that connection, that bridge.

I stand for equity, kindness, forthrightness, decency, intelligence, communication, humility, common sense, and all things leading to agreement.  I believe in standing up for the little guy, but I’m not afraid to stand up for someone powerful who needs another to come along side.

The things of common goodness which I was brought up admiring and aspiring to be, bring us from the far left and the far right into a place of compromise.  This is not a bad word.

My own husband used to dislike the word and concept behind compromise.  It sounded to him, as it likely does to some others, like giving up, giving in, or not taking a stand – a crouch perhaps, but not a stand.

I guess I was born a peacemaker.  Every disagreement must be moderated with give-and-take from each side, bringing them firmly into middle ground.   We are not a homogeneous culture, community, household, or partnership, and disagreements abound.

Compromise is not diluted commitment.  The thing that settles disagreements is give-and-take, diplomacy, communication, and yes, compromise.  As Ella Fitzgerald sang, you have to “give a little to get a little.”  She went on to croon, “no love, no hope…with love there’s hope.”

Jesus himself said that love covers sin.  He modeled the concept with the prostitute he met at a watering hole.  He conversed with her about not only physical water, but the metaphysical kind: living water, or love.  Others ridiculed and judged the woman for her lifestyle, but Jesus covered her, with love, forgiveness and compromise, “go and sin no more,” he said.

There are two sides to every coin, but one coin.  There are two sides to every argument, with the goal being agreement.  There are two people in a marriage, making one union.  A collective of trees makes a forest.

I recently dreamt of the 1986 Culture Club (Boy George) song, Karma Chameleon which totally portrays the chameleon as a wishy-washy uncommitted creature which takes no stand.  Was the dream defensive for my chameleonic personality?  Or is it just a reaction to very self-assured activists, critical of us chameleons of the 1960s “make love not war” flavor, who don’t join their fight?

My perspective about chameleons is that they change colors in order to adapt to an ever-changing environment.  First one color then another is a form of assimilation, accommodation, and adaptation – all survival mechanisms.  Back to the military, we must “adapt and overcome” or face sure defeat.

I don’t take a knee.  I don’t bow.  I don’t crouch or curtsy.  I stand, probably for you, and you, and you.

I’ve seen enough old spy movies to have a suspicion that Vladimir Putin could conceivably follow through with his threat to flip the switch activating nuclear codes.  For that matter so could Joe Biden.  Flipping that switch is an ominous thought, well above my pay grade.  However, it got me to thinking about switches, in general.

Actually, switches of the electrical kind are fun and entertaining devices.  I recently watched a television show or movie that in one scene featured a woman mindlessly switching a light on and off, on and off, to assuage her boredom or was it, frustration?

I once had to run a switchboard on the receptionist’s lunch hour at a transportation company I worked for.  It was a desk-size console covered with switches or buttons.  It wasn’t quite as ancient as the one run by Mrs. Olsen on Little House on the Prairie, with flip switches and a headphone, for listening in, but it was close.  Pushing buttons and flipping switches made that old switchboard a grown-up toy reminiscent of my little girl’s cash register from back in the day.

I’ve never owned a switchblade and probably never will.  But they are bad-ass, huh?  I think it’s not so much the blade, but the sound of switching them open, that seals the deal.  I might like having one just to hear the soothing sound of switching it open.

Or maybe I should become a switch-person at a train-yard.  I worked for Auto-Train many years ago and I will never outgrow the thrill of trains.  I still find train-yard sounds, soothing.  Even the screeching of heavy iron clanking against heavy iron makes me smile and it reminds me of the Proverb (27:17), iron sharpens iron, generally understood to illustrate friendship and accountability.

How many times during a television watching session do you switch channels for nothing but the joy of the switch?  Do you drive a standard shift automobile or truck, because you find switching gears entertaining?

Are you familiar with the flexible, thin branch from a tree, called a switch, which is used as a whip with which to spank naughty children?  I was never hit with a switch, a belt, or even spanked, as I recall.  But, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer was required reading by those of us born in what I generically call, 19sensibleshoes.  Tom Sawyer, or was it Huck Finn, was hit with a switch and if I recall correctly, he had to select said switch.

Modern child development and parenting literature teaches us that spanking, let alone switching the backside of children suggests to them that hitting is the way for someone more powerful than you to solve a problem.  Some folks, including ones that were hit as children, would argue that spanking or switching just taught them to behave, or at least not get caught misbehaving.  That’s an argument for others.

Or maybe you know the switch as a metaphor for a device of behavioral or psychological control.  A pointed finger is a sort of switch because it’s an object for pointing out stuff, or why else call it a “pointer finger?”

My husband enjoys a picture of a little girl with a switch pointed at a little boy, that I printed for him from the internet.  This picture which resides in his man-shed as well as on his office desk, is captioned “I’m not bossy!  I have skills…leadership skills!!  Understand?”  Enough said.

We’ve all had to make some unpleasant switcheroos from time to time, say from salt to herbs to add flavor to food; from chips to popcorn; from red meat to chicken and turkey; from size um-um to a bigger size UM-UM; from a little chocolate with our sugar bars to unsweetened 72% or higher cacao/chocolate bars that honestly taste like dirt at first, but I’ve learned to like them a lot.

Bing Crosby and The Andrews Sisters sang, “You got to ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive, Eliminate the negative, and latch on to the affirmative….”  So, might I suggest that the next time you switch outfits for the fifth time before leaving the house, “accentuate the positive,” and think of it as entertainment.  You just pulled a switcheroo and got away without a switching from somebody, anybody.

Julie Andrews sang about some of her favorite things in The Sound of Music.  Well, I have favorite things too and some of mine, are sounds.

“Silence is golden, golden,” rings in my head.  It’s a lyric from back in the day (1967, Tremeloes).  About the sentiment, not so much, for me.  Nothing creeps me out more than hearing my own heartbeat.  Analyze that, ha-ha.

Andra Day sings “the silence isn’t quiet,” in an awesome song called Rise Up.  And in one of my favorite songs, by Heart, These Dreams, we hear in part, “every second of the night I live another life… the sweetest song is silence, that I’ve ever heard.”

So, songs, silence, and sounds are understood in paradox; one moment one thing, and the next moment another meaning presents itself.  I do enjoy silence from talk, periodically, and I work best in silence.  When I’m working, there is enough rolling around in my brain, that any other sound is overload.

White noise, however is a must in order for me to entertain peace.  Peace and quiet from peopley noise, yes; but nature noise or industrial noise is a must-have.

I’m a big fan of white noise.  As a teenager, the clothes dryer created that white noise in my household.  I’m good with dishwashers too; and any kind of fan is a delight.

On an early spring, cool evening, after a long day, one of my favorite sounds when resting on the sofa, is the fan from our fireplace insert.  When it stops, needing fed, I’m disappointed.

I’m somewhat averse to pet birds.  But I love to see and especially hear birds chirping outside in the springtime.  It’s cheerful, not to mention hopeful.

Probably the most frequent subtitle my husband and I have observed while watching foreign TV shows and movies is, “birds chirping.”  In fact, we laugh now, every time it appears on the screen.  “Those birds are back at it.”

What seems like a scene straight out of one of my favorite movies, Alfred Hitchcock’s, The Birds, used to play out in our bamboo grove every fall.  Now that the bamboo is gone, the generic black birds which number in the dozens, maybe hundreds, roost across the road in the very tops of scrubby no-name trees.  They all talk in unison as if it’s a bird convention.

Winter seems to me a silent season, we’re insulated indoors by intense quietude.  Somebody surely invented the saying, “cabin-fever,” in winter.  On the contrary, spring speaks life, new beginnings – “life springs eternal” says more about the season than a water-fountain.

Peepers, spring frogs, overwhelm the air with their song, along tree-lined paths nearby.  Before I knew any better, I thought they were extremely loud crickets.  Keen observers of their surroundings, they cease their chorale when I approach parallel to their habitat.

I’m not unhappy with mechanical white noise, thus the clothes dryer, dishwasher mentioned above, but a white noise machine doesn’t fall on deaf ears in our house.  Mine is set on an industrial fan sound.  I’d probably sleep like a baby in an industrial warehouse or some such place.

A luxury tree house in the woods next to a flowing stream would suit me just fine.  I’ve got a recording of such a rushing stream on my phone, for emergencies.  Even a screech owl would be a welcome visitor.

I’ve never been one to dislike city noise: honking horns, cars buzzing along, sirens, etc.  In contrast, the silence of a country night can be very unnerving.

In fact, my first night, living deep in the country after moving from the city, was sleepless because something was missing, sound.  When the power goes out at night, my eyes pop wide open in direct response to the extreme quiet.

The “chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga, woo-woo” of trains on television, to the sounds of the real rails is a fairy-tale come true for me.  Train noises, just like walking onboard a moving train is probably an acquired taste, but it’s my kind of flavor.

I like all kinds of music but the best for me is classical, with no words.  I don’t want the distraction or to expend the effort to process the message.  I like just letting the sounds elicit whatever reaction they elicit, without the help of someone else’s interpretation.

I’m not thinking I could do the vow of silence required by some religious orders.  Me and my kindred spirits that got bad marks in elementary school for “talks too much” would suffer inordinately, to stay silent.  We’ve got stuff that needs saying.

This is not to say that the sound of my own voice doesn’t get annoying.  I’d much rather hear a baby babbling, doves cooing or the pitter-patter of rain on a metal roof.  It’s all relative, the sounds we like and the ones that grate.

But I for one am grateful for sound, and silence for that matter.  I’m glad to have heard the hum of a full beehive, thunder on a summer night, and even the gentle but resolute snort of a fleeing black bear.

I have too many favorite songs, I think, but this one hovers near the top of my list (Bing Crosby; writers Regney Noel/Shain Gloria Adele); “Do you hear what I hear? …a song, a song… Pray for peace people everywhere….”

I thought of calling this column, War and Peace, but reconsidered since that one’s taken.  Surely War and Peace, written by Russian author, Leo Tolstoy between 1805-1869, among the longest novels ever written and with over 500 characters, could be resoundingly considered by some to be “purple prose,” in lay terms, wordy.

So, why Forest and Trees, rather than War and Peace?  There’s a well-known saying, “you can’t see the forest for the trees.”  If peace is the forest what are the details (the trees), that we can’t get past, in order to reach the goal?

“Can’t see the forest for the trees,” is essentially considered an insult, not unlike “stop overthinking,” or “you must have OCD.”  It’s hardly diplomatic nor tactful.

Notice that I’m speaking about a twist on the saying.  Instead of forest or trees, I’m proposing a theory concerning the forest and the trees, taken together as a middle ground.  I think we need not stamp out one or the other, as inconsequential.

Are there many peace treaties being negotiated in Congress in America?  Or is there just one skirmish after another in a constant battle of wills; opponents fighting it out for who’s more powerful?

The basics of diplomacy require an exchange of details, a negotiation between elements of what I want and what you want.  What diplomacy is not, is one powerful opponent taking the other by force, that’s not diplomacy it’s war.  And, war may end in victory, but rarely, in peace.  War totally eclipses the goal of peace.

Putin’s aggression in Ukraine, China’s threat of similar aggression in Taiwan and our homegrown aggression between liberal and conservative, powerful elite and the rest of us, started this train of thought.  Here goes me turning international diplomacy around to something personal.

I have had a problem with being stuck in the trees within the forest.  You’ll notice I put this in the past tense.  One can hope, eh?  I don’t know about you but I’m a work in progress.

When a person such as myself likes words so much, it’s a temptation to use them all at once lest I forget one of the good ones.  In one of my jobs, I am an editor, a person who cuts the extraneous.  What a paradox and conundrum.

Word count limits have helped me enjoy the forest.  Prioritizing the details helps; which tree is the best? Using the first one or two details on the list and deleting three through twelve, helps.

A desire for clarity helps me to see the whole forest.  Rules, boundaries, and limits help.

Genuine understanding and acknowledgment from others – feedback helps.  Which trees do other people find fascinating?

Becoming annoyed at your own voice helps.  Stop, already.

Being ready to throw out the old, to stop rehashing the past and embracing the new and fresh helps.  Self-compassion and forgiving your own mistakes help.  Sitting down and getting real, helps.

Back to Putin and Ukraine, a bunch of leaders from around the world have approached Vladimir Putin, attempting to balance his demands against the sovereignty of Ukraine, to no apparent success.  The theory is, that when diplomacy fails, you don’t give up and concede to war. 

The late, former Secretary of State, Colin Powell once said, “incomplete victories that give an opponent a way out are often the best solutions.”  Diplomacy requires persistence, optimism, and imagination.

Praying that “somebody kills the man,” is just plain nonsense.  But we can pray for a tapestry to come together by weaving together an agreement between Putin, NATO nations, and Ukraine, with the threads of our mutual interest.  This requires concessions.  We might pray that the misconceptions which abound in the world become unraveled, and set up a new loom.

I feel like diplomacy in the world is rife with distractions and misunderstanding.  We truly need to get our heads out of our you-know-what and start to see the forest and the trees.

That’s what I call this time of year.  One day we need our woolen wardrobe of winter and the next day it’s, “where are my shorts?”

In Pennsylvania, we’ve been known to have up to a dozen weather seasons, which some have labeled: Winter, Fool’s Spring, Second Winter, Spring of Deception, Third Winter, The Pollening, Actual Spring, Summer, Hell’s Front Porch, False Fall, Second Summer, Actual Fall, and so on.  Others have said we have just two seasons: Winter or Pothole Season and Construction Season.

There are the “dog-days” of summer; “Indian Summer,” fake fall, mud season and all kinds of seasons in between; all of which have been around as long as there have been observant folks with a sense of humor.  This is not to say we are not experiencing climate change nor that it has to do with human behavior.

But Spring in these parts has always been true to its nature as a transition season.  Let me show you a typical weather week in Spring:

Sunday 31 degrees with plow-able snow,

Monday 59 degrees and partly sunny,

Tuesday 81 degrees with severe thunderstorms,

Wednesday 67 degrees with “where’s Toto winds,”

Thursday 84 degrees with scorching sun,

Friday 55 degrees and cloudy, and

Saturday 29 degrees and an ice storm, or not.

Yep, transitions are just that – not quite one thing and not quite the other, but something in between, or not.  Transitions might be the extreme of one thing or the extreme of its opposite. 

One thing we can say for sure about transitions are that they are unpredictable.  Therefore, we can little prepare for transitions.

Transitions are passages from one stage or phase to another.  Any birthing woman can testify that the transition phase between labor and delivery is welcome but shocking.  For most women it has been hours of your uterus entertaining spasm after spasm toward the goal of stretching open the cervix in order to birth a giant from inside to outside of your tiny little body, or so it feels at that moment.

So, transitions are good, they help us prepare to cross over, eventually to the next phase or stage of existence. But they’re also difficult because we don’t know exactly when we’ve arrived.  By the time the perennial question of the child-traveler, “are we there yet?” is answered, it just feels irrelevant, duh.

As the Goldilocks story goes, to my memory, she visits the house of the three bears while they’re away.  She has been on a sort of long journey and is quite tired.  Her hunger draws her to porridge which is too hot, too cold, and finally “just right.” 

Goldilocks ventures upstairs to the one-bedroom loft and tries out papa-bear’s bed and finds it too hard, she gets lost in the fluff of mama-bear’s bed, and finds baby-bear’s bed “just right.”  But darned if she doesn’t get found out by the returning three bears, who dismiss her into the forest.

What does Goldilocks teach us about weather seasons?  First of all, I believe we can all agree that the transition seasons of Spring and Autumn or Fall as we say here, can be “just right” one day and altogether wrong the next, too hot, too cold, too wet, or too dry.

Next, I think the Goldilocks story correlates with weather seasons in that somebody else’s bed is never going to be “just right” like our own bed.  In other words, the weather that is “just right” for me is more than likely not “just right” for you or your brother, or cousin, or neighbor. 

Or does Goldilocks really mean that we cannot be pleased no matter what the weather does.  Some people like rainy days, and for other people, “rainy days and Mondays always get me down”, so sang the Carpenters.

I’ve heard folks say “we need rain,” while others say the ground is saturated.  And how do we reconcile that some people pray for more snow and others petition for a cease-and-desist order on snow until next year?

You’ve heard it said that, “you can’t please ‘em all.” So, whatever your pleasure, this Spring, I’m fairly certain that you’ll find a day that is “just right” for you.  Happy Spring.

 

I’ve said it before that we’re aging from the minute we’re born so if you can’t identify with any of these H-words of aging, wait for it….  Ha-ha and Hallelujah.

In our crowd, instead of showing off our hip and happening lives, there’s increasing talk of hip replacements and how is that working out for you?  We’ve learned that it’s just courteous to ignore the obvious sprawling hips from years of sitting, or just years.

Hair is a concern, as in wash away the gray or you can’t get it to go away, from all the wrong places.  Or you don’t have enough of it.  Hair can be a problem either way.  In all of our years of accumulated wisdom, we know that one lives through one heartrending hairdo-fail after another and we have pictures to prove it.

Hernias and hemorrhoids appear out of nowhere when you forget to lift with your knees.  Then there are knees which need supplemental oiling or you begin to move like the tin man.  Get this, when exercise is the treatment for knee pain but in order to do the exercise, you need pain medication.  Go figure.

Home improvement is no longer about decoration so much as it’s about making it an easier space to live in.  We’re adapting our habitat to suit the new us.

Even if you’re not a “hugger,” those of us at both extremes of the aging spectrum, grandparents and little kids are the best at giving hugs.  We know the value of a good hug. It’s helpful to hug.

History can be problematic.  Who of us hasn’t got history?  But remembering it is when it gets tricky.

Hysterectomy.  It’s okay, ovaries and uterus are just extra baggage and obsolete at this point, probably the feminine appendix of aging.  Why bother?

Instead of a brilliant but sneaky internet thief, a hacker seems to be one who has the persistent cough from heretofore unclaimed mystery allergies.  Or having been hacked, is the telltale sign of an aging Facebook user.

It has been noted that one’s hands and neck cannot lie as to your age.  Rings no longer fit over problematic knuckles and scarves become our friends. Do you remember the beautiful Doris Day singing, “Que sera, sera, whatever will be will be, the future’s not ours to see, que sera, sera.?”

There are still hoops to jump through.  But now I realize it’s not my circus and I’m not your clown.

Hinky is when the whatsit goes wrong.  And you don’t get to your age without trying to right a whole bunch of wrongs which have gone way past hinky.

Habaneros and heartburn go hand-in-hand, but throw caution to the wind and spice up your life a bit.  After all, Arnold Schwarzenegger said in Kindergarten Cop, “it’s not a tumor.”

A hullabaloo isn’t so much a type of groovy dance move, as the dance we do when trying to talk sense to a customer service rep on the telephone.

Honey-trap?  I don’t think so.  I could probably get over the temptation of sweets if I could just have salt.  But no such luck.

Speaking of luck, some folks don’t believe in it, unless they’re Irish.  Every detective I’ve seen on television has said at one time or another,” I don’t believe in coincidence, “or happen-chance.  But, the first cousin of happen-chance is happenstance and that is my middle name: random occurrence.

I believe in random.  In fact, I’m a big fan of Matthew 5:45 – God makes the sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust, alike.  I also understand, I Peter 5:9 – Stand firm in your faith and the knowledge that your siblings throughout the world are undergoing the same kinds of suffering as you are.

Home is where the heart is as well as heaps of housekeeping.  Dirt happens, especially in the entry portals of aging amateur horticulturists, which most of us have become as we’ve aged.

Humility is easier when you no longer need to impress anybody.  And honesty is the best policy because when you’ve aged a bit, remembering a lie, like a spy, is too complicated.

Hash can be a ground up meal, a kind of psychedelic drug, the re-working of old or familiar material, a symbol on a keyboard which was substituted for the word “number” or even “pound;” but now facilitates the search for a topic of interest on the internet (as in hashtag #).

“Get your motor running, head out on the highway, looking for adventure, in whatever comes our way” (Born to Be Wild 1968 Steppenwolf). A highway can be called a motorway, byway, or freeway, but most of us call it a road and we all go down one, on our way….  And, we don’t go halfway down that road and turnaround; for us it’s all or nothing.  We’ve habituated to this path and we’re taking it to its limit (reference Eagles 1975 Don Henley/Glenn Lewis Frey/Randy Meisner).

Back in the day, “heavy” was a cool and groovy word for deep, now it just means overweight or a crap spot on the BMI index.

Hindsight is what we wished we had our whole lives while waiting for wisdom to kick in.

Headlights nowadays are lower on the chassis and shaped funny but we’ll get used to them.  It’s all a blur at night anyway, thanks to halogen.

“Happiness is morning and evening,” or so goes the Charlie Brown Happiness Is song.  So, whether you’re in the morning or the evening of aging, happiness can be your signature.