I rejoice, but a bit more slowly
At Simchat Torah services, our heroine acknowledged, yet again and for the umpteenth time, that another year had bitten the dust and she was (wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles) still standing, as were those she cherished most. This truth filled her with radical amazement (thank you, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel) and set her to contemplating, yet again and for the umpteenth time, how to best measure her remaining days so as to get her a heart of wisdom. This prospect led our heroine to consider the calendar where she scribbled her increasingly hum-drum comings and goings, specifically the 18-month academic desk calendar which allowed her anxiety-bedeviled self more room to fret about the booby traps that surely lay ahead. Whereupon she acknowledged that in this portion of her life she could deep-six all calendars because she now marked time (each morning when she rose up and each night before lying down) with her fill-them-weekly plastic pill boxes (one pink, one turquoise). Well here’s a howdy do, our heroine said to the bathroom mirror. I am, by golly, old. At which point she mourned her technicolored youth (in the past-perfect tense, of course) when she had worn four-inch heels, had tossed violets from her hotel balcony to serenaders in that moon-lit Timisoara street, had sunned topless in Tunisia. (Our heroine, you see, split her time equally between the passionate past and the angst-filled future.) But then, at Simchat Torah services, with Moses dead and the world newly-born, our heroine got a grip, hugged the present moment (a sudden Jew in the Lotus, she) and thanked the Lord, God, King of the universe (as well as Medicare and a multitude of pharmeceutical companies ) who had kept her alive, sustained her, and enabled her to reach this season.
At Simchat Torah services, our heroine acknowledged, yet again and for the umpteenth time, that another year had bitten the dust and she was (wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles) still standing, as were those she cherished most. This truth filled her with radical amazement (thank you, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel) and set her to contemplating, yet again and for the umpteenth time, how to best measure her remaining days so as to get her a heart of wisdom. This prospect led our heroine to consider the calendar where she scribbled her increasingly hum-drum comings and goings, specifically the 18-month academic desk calendar which allowed her anxiety-bedeviled self more room to fret about the booby traps that surely lay ahead. Whereupon she acknowledged that in this portion of her life she could deep-six all calendars because she now marked time (each morning when she rose up and each night before lying down) with her fill-them-weekly plastic pill boxes (one pink, one turquoise). Well here’s a howdy do, our heroine said to the bathroom mirror. I am, by golly, old. At which point she mourned her technicolored youth (in the past-perfect tense, of course) when she had worn four-inch heels, had tossed violets from her hotel balcony to serenaders in that moon-lit Timisoara street, had sunned topless in Tunisia. (Our heroine, you see, split her time equally between the passionate past and the angst-filled future.) But then, at Simchat Torah services, with Moses dead and the world newly-born, our heroine got a grip, hugged the present moment (a sudden Jew in the Lotus, she) and thanked the Lord, God, King of the universe (as well as Medicare and a multitude of pharmeceutical companies ) who had kept her alive, sustained her, and enabled her to reach this season.
The AARP perpetual calendar . . .
