KICKING THE TIRES OF MY DAY November 18 2022

Be It Good, or Be It Bad, It’s Done

Writing under pressure! Exactly thirty minutes to write and post. Making things worse, I lost the document that contained the jottings for today’s post. My mind revolves fruitlessly. Oops! Looks like I found a topic. Creating under pressure. Creating against a timeline. Creating a job that must be accomplished. Time is short and I can’t put this off until I have more time to write a better post.

Because

  • These specific moments will never come again.
  • It feels better to accomplish something I told myself I would accomplish, than possibly do a better job at a later date.
  • The more I write, the better I write, that’s the theory anyway and I will pretend that it’s true.

What I I am living a Collection of Habits

Segue to a new thought. I woke up this morning, and I felt like I was a different person. I didn’t feel as if I were another person, but a different side of myself feeling a different set of feelings than those to which I am accustomed. Makes me wonder how much of “who we think we are” is nothing more or less than a set of habits that run themselves automatically.

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SPINNING MY WHEELS AND GETTING UP TO SPEED

“IIi

“I ain’t dead yet!”

Although I am sure that the handful of my followers certainly think so because I haven’t posted for how long? Let me count the years: one, two. Think I will don the green eyeshades of self-delusion and pretend it hasn’t been longer. My “end of days” plan was to write, write and write even more. The plan execution was avoid writing, avoid writing and avoid writing even more.

Here I am (with new driving gloves) reeving the engine, pulling out of the driveway, and entering the fast lane. It has the be the fast lane because I must increase my speed to 75 miles an hour to catch up.

The Thanksgiving when I was seven, I suddenly announced to the tableful of relatives that I was going to marry when I was seventy. To this day, I haven’t the foggiest what prompted that declaration. Here I am, past seventy, rarely a bridesmaid, never a bride.

So here’s the deal. Having no grandchildren (Holy cow, I am at the age of great-grandchildren) to justify my existence to myself, needs must hustle my butt to claim a better epitaph than

SHE ARRIVED, SHE LEFT AND HAD NO FUN ALONG THE WAY