Sixty Six
Sunday. A good night's sleep I'm thinking, to bed around ten although I thought it took longer than it really should have to drift off. Up at the now Day Light Savings hour of six thirty, five thirty as far as my internal clock was concerned. Still - up early, up late - I was up and ready for breakfast. Nothing wrong with being ready for breakfast. Appetites are good, breakfasts are good and life is good when you're able to get out of bed on your own steam and tie your shoe laces without undue effort. It's overcast, but not a rainy day sort of an overcast and the day is still ahead.
And, of course, it's my birthday. Sixty-six. The number is, well, disconcerting. There are wrinkles where there were no wrinkles and the wrinkles that were there are growing as if in a well tended garden. These are things that have always happened to other people until, well, now. My goodness. Still, it gives you a certain degree of anonymity. After a certain age people no longer pay attention. Good camouflage for a photographer.
Later. A short nap (so much for my saying I was wide awake when I awoke), the sun poking through the clouds as it approaches noon. Ms. T has suggested we get together for lunch or a drink after she finishes a shoot this morning. Interesting to know people who actually do the things I only talk about, but life runs on its own quirky path and you do just fine as long as you don't get all that serious about direction. Well, as long as you keep a sense of humor about the direction it takes, what with the werewolves and pot holes.
Later still. A nice chat with Ms. T and D this afternoon over Guinness, a drive by a KFC (I throw caution to the wind every month or so) to get back in time to watch another chapter of my weekend soap only to discover they'd started it an hour earlier than usual. Still, a good day, the sun out this afternoon, time for a little reading (on the Kindle I suspect) before bed. Sixty-six. Here in Oakland.
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