Eighty-nine is not an age you would choose. Too close to the precipice. Yet, on this sunny day in June, I am grateful for the pleasures that lie before me. I have nothing scheduled today. No lunch date, no meetings, no doctors. Iris is playing bridge; I am alone; job and young children belong to bygone times.
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Eighty-nine is not an age you would choose. Too close to the precipice. Yet, on this sunny day in June, I am grateful for the pleasures that lie before me. I have nothing scheduled today. No lunch date, no meetings, no doctors. Iris is playing bridge; I am alone; job and young children belong to bygone times.
This day is mine.
Off to Central Park I go -- with book, pad and pen. I will sit in the sun, read, write this blog. And watch the passing parade -- young mothers pushing strollers, children on scooters, fathers playing catch, dogs cavorting, older folk sitting on benches -- like me.
From this happy spot, I will walk home and make myself lunch. Leftover spaghetti, which I will heat in the microwave and smother with parmesan cheese -- enough to horrify Iris. But she is playing bridge.
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Fatigue will then come rolling in like fog. It always does after lunch. I will take my book and me to the chaise-lounge in our bedroom. Spreading the quilt over me, with the pillow behind, I will leave this world.
I will wake up not sure of where I am for a moment. I will go to the computer, check my emails and my friends on Facebook. I have 260 friends on Facebook. But I do not even know 260 people. This is a discrepancy that perhaps only Mark Zuckerberg could explain.
It will then be about 5 p.m. Iris will have returned from wherever. We will talk; I will go through the mail; we will watch the news. Around 6:30 p.m., we will leave to have dinner with friends.
After dinner, we will lie on the couch and read, legs going in opposite directions. I will stroke her feet and legs. Or we will watch the tube -- no stroking there.
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Around 10:45 p.m. I will go to bed with a book. I love this cozy alone time at night. It restores my innocence. Happily, I drift off. Iris will come up later.
Listen, I know how lucky I am -- to be alive at 89, to have my mind, to have resources, to live in a fabulous city in a fabulous country.
Yesterday I read the Berkshire Hathaway Annual Report. Warren Buffett, roughly my age, reports that he dances to work. Pulsating energy flows through his veins as he oversees one of the world's largest and most successful companies.
I respect and admire Warren Buffett. And who would not like to have made such a mark.
But I'd rather have my day than his. Which would you pick if you were 89?
Earlier on Huff/Post50:
10 Things to Look Forward To As An Empty Nester
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