One week till b-day

I'm one week away from 57. Good old middle-age. If only! (I wouldn't mind making it to 114, if I could be reasonably healthy and in my right mind, whatever a "right" mind is. For me, it surely would not be a "conservative" mind!)

I hinted to (i.e., "told") my husband what I wanted as a gift--some Tahitian black pearl earrings to match the necklace my family gave me as a graduation gift. Strangely, I never used to care for jewelry, but the good thing about it is that it gives the Esteemed One something specific to get for gifts. He's not very imaginative, sad to say. He plans no romantic get-aways in cozy bed-and-breakfasts. (Maybe that's not very unusual these days anyway, since it's what all the talk shows seem to advocate.)

He did mention that the new Batman movie was opening on my birthday, but that's hardly a movie to watch to celebrate anything. Poor Heath Ledger. Just seeing the previews, I feel traumatized by his performance of such evil.

I know better than to suggest a "chick flick." To be honest, I'm not much fonder of them than the menfolk are. Maudlin sentiment is NOT entertainment. And the usual plot of guy-meets-girl, they hate each other, then finally they love each other--sorry, that's not my idea of love. What I really like are the old movies, with verbal wit and humor. Today's comedies are dreadful. A reviewer this morning was trashing Eddie Murphy's latest, Meet Dave, and I heartily concur. Humor that appeals to 13-year-olds or people whose mental development is at that level is not humor at all to me. It's offensive, trivial, silly, and time-wasting. I'd rather read a good book. Or even a bad book.

I've just started Janet Evanovich's Fearless Fourteen. She's funny, witty, and sometimes bawdy. It would be wonderful if they could make a movie about the exploits of Stephanie Plum and her voluptuous "former 'ho" sidekick Lula.

But getting back to birthdays: My mother was 60 years and 9 months old when she died. When she was my age, she was already in failing health. Heavy smoking and drinking really stripped her life away. Fortunately, I don't have those two vices to contend with, but if we listen to the news (which is, after all, so accurate and fair!), I'm destined to die early because of my weight. (So please tell me why my very fat grandmother died at age 89, whereas her skinny husband died at 76! They both smoked heavily. And she was diabetic.)

Nevertheless, I cannot argue that I would feel better and be more energetic if I were a more normal size. Gack. That stupid word "normal." Maybe "average"? Except these days, the average woman is a size 16, not the model or actress size 0 or 2.

Whatever the size I am or should be, a week from today, I'll be 57 years old. Let the games begin! S.