Goodbye 2020

I made two miscalculations last month. First, my reading schedule included too many fat books and I never did get around to slipping the really big one in, and second, I made the mistake of assuming Carlyle’s French Revolution would be a pleasant educational break from all that confusing fiction.

I forgot: It’s all fiction!

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Slipping the Big One In

My reading has reached an unimagined high level, partially due to the current pandemic and also a sign of a final rush to read all those lovely titles I have coveted through the years but so far failed to read (Intimations of Mortality). I mused with slowing the flow and concentrating on a select group of gaggers which would otherwise never be allocated the time required to read one, two, even three thousand pages.

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Is It November 3rd Yet?

Another month in isolation. It’s raining (it’s always raining). I’m reading books and watching Criterion. T***p is well along the way to self destruction (there are still predictions out there insisting T***p will not make it to November). I’m living on cauliflower and smoked salmon dreaming of meatloaf in mushroom gravy. Sometimes I am envious of T***p’s Big Macs and KFC.

I don’t know if there is any connection with this pandemic isolation but I am feeling older and older. I rely on my rolling walker to make even the shortest trip across the bedroom (especially at night). I have to ask my son-in-law to open jars for me. My eyes water constantly and I find myself making the computer font larger almost weekly. I still have a sense of humor and a trickle of a sex drive (ha! that’s useful) but two things I have often heard of as diminishing with old age seem to have missed me: I now sleep more than ever and I love to eat.

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