Ever since I gave myself a blog for my sixtieth birthday I’ve been everything BLOG. I now use the word blog the way the word fuck is used: for everything.
“What the blog are you doing?” I ask Duke, who appears to be digging through my underwear drawer. He’s naked and a bit excited. “Oh, for blog sake,” I say in exasperation when he holds up my silk-robe sash. “Get your blogging ass over here and show me something good,” he says, taking up my new lingo. “We’re blogged now.”
You get my point.
I turn SIXTY day after tomorrow! Blog me!
I was up fretting about it last night. I left the bed to wander the house, looking for an easy way to feel. It was too hot last night. I opened the refrigerator door and stood in its special, cool light. Maybe I was thinking the answer to my age-angst was somewhere in the small jars huddled together on the middle shelf. They’re a fine collection of special ingredients, aging in cold silence: mustard, olive paste, capers, lemon curd, marinated artichokes, and a tiny, unopened jar of Russian caviar I bought 4 years ago to impress dinner guests who turned out to be vegetarians. Or maybe I was finding answers in the mouth chilling 2012 Chardonnay I took a couple slugs of. When the warning alarm sounded–the blogging door is open too long–angst still intact, I made my way to the living room to sweat out a couple of hours thinking about the past.
It’s easy to think of your past for the simple fact that you, and you alone, know what it contains. Oblivious youth followed by decades of illusion filled adulthood where dreams came true and nightmares stayed in the sleep-realm. Things start getting all blogged up somewhere around fifty-five and crash hard at fifty-nine. That’s how it was for me anyway. But that’s the past.
Here and now, I’m blogging.
Day after tomorrow , what the blog do I know?