Last week someone asked me again if I was spending time with my granddaughter while I was running errands with E. If E wasn't sitting right behind me, I might have said, "Yes" -- just to shorten the inevitable heartbreak that happens when I need to soothe the offender for his or her shame in assuming my wrinkles and grey hair mean that I could only be a grandparent to a 6-year-old.
Last night I wanted to read my new Lucky Peach magazine. (Cynthia, you should look for this because it may give you hope after the murder of Gourmet.) But I couldn't track the content because I was so tired (big Saturday at the Market), and I said some not nice words and slammed the magazine down and yanked off the light.
This morning I thought about how wonderful it is to want to read something after many months, and why can't I? What's wrong with me? Do I need glasses or what?
Then I remembered that I was prescribed reading glasses before Thanksgiving last year. I got them and lost them. Duh. Then I got busy re-imagining my business, applying to the Market, preparing for the Market, and then producing for and doing the Market... this is the first time since December when I had free mind space for reading something that really interested me, and I forgot I needed glasses to do it.
Age, like I said.
