Saturday is pizza day at our house. K gets one with pepperoni, sausage, jalapenos and onions; I have a veggie. I try always to eat whole grains, but Saturday’s thin pizza crust is an exception. I always crash afterwards because the carbohydrate upsets my blood sugar. So I spent some time this afternoon napping. I think I’m prediabetic but the doctor says my blood sugar is at a normal level. The high end of normal, I must add.
Anyway, here I am talking about my ailments just like I used to promise myself I would never do when I got old. Only another old person would be interested. My friend, P, and I exchange and compare health news. On the phone. This is unchartered territory and it’s nice to know how you stack up.
I finished May Sarton’s “At Eighty-Two.” Now I’ll look for another of her memoirs to reread. It ruins my day when I don’t have a good book to read. The books I’ve ordered lately have been disappointing. I love Peg Bracken’s cookbooks. Not so much her memoirs.
I’m going to watch a movie on TV later: “Notes From the Heart Healer.” I could be wrong, but I think the same person who produced “The Notebook” is producing this one. Whoever produced it, I believe it’s going to be good.
What I’m really doing is avoiding writing poetry. I want to put another slim volume together but the excitement, the passion is gone.
The dogs are unhappy with me because my lap hasn’t been very available today. Betsy went out and rolled in some fertilizer the gardener must have dropped when he planted my tomatoes and sun flowers. I tried to wash it off. The odor is gone, but not the dark stains. I’d just had her groomed a few days ago; she’s going to have to go back to the groomer as soon as I can get an appointment. In the meantime, she’s not very snugable. She doesn’t understand why I don’t want to give her a back massage, and maybe I should; but the thought of touching her with all that stuff on her turns me off. I’m not as generous and loving as I’d like to be. That’s one of the surprising things I’ve learned about myself. Either I’ve always been not so loving as I thought or I’ve changed. I used to always have this image of myself as a loving, caring person, in fact, often TOO caring, to my own detriment. When I look back now and remember all the things I did for others , out of pure enjoyment I thought, I wonder, was I playing a role? I don’t know. What’s more important is how do I become more loving, caring and helpful now? And remain authentic? At this late age, I still have a long way to go.