There are those among my friends who hate getting older. “Wouldn’t you kill to be 20 again?” one of my pals has a habit of asking.
Hell’s to the NO.
After two weeks of being on book tour, I have proven that I was meant to be a 50-year old. When my book tour ended, I gave a class to a writers group here in San Francisco, and then rented a little tiny apartment in Pacific Heights to wait out the week until today, when a girl I’ve known since she was born is getting married. For the first two days, I sat on the very comfortable couch and wrote. I don’t think I got out of my jammies. If I had a FitBit, it would have been quite irritated with me.
I think my patronus is a slightly creaky cat who enjoys naps, sunshine and walks through gardens. McIrish, too, has the heart of senior citizen. His last name means “Little Old One” in Irish, as a matter of fact. We’ve spent our time in San Francisco walking hand-in-hand through Muir Woods, Golden Gate Park, the Botanical Gardens.
We have purchased no marijuana. We have been to zero jazz clubs. I don’t think we’ve made it past midnight yet. We assessed one restaurant as being too loud. It rained a lot the other day, and we went to Grace Cathedral and walked their labyrinth. It was fun! Our priorities have been the timing of meals so we can eat a lot, since SF is a city of great food.
We love to window-shop. McIrish bought a button-down shirt. Crazy, I know. Today, he plans to ride the cable cars while I write (or nap). The wedding is tonight. I will cry, of course, and remember that beautiful little girl whose mommy used to bring her to visit me at work, the little girl I used to babysit. Her mom and I have stayed very close all these years—we met at my very first job out of college. She was at my wedding, in fact.
You can see I’m getting lost in memories, as one does when one has the soul of a great-great-grandmother. Hey.
I wouldn’t trade my trick knee for being 20 again with a gun to the back of my head. These are happy times. Happy, happy times.