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I knew I would write a blog on this topic one day.

Hildie McQueen’s recent blog titled Remember When? moved one day to today. In her article, Hildie pondered achieving the ripe young age of fifty. I can remember only imagine how that feels.

She does not look fifty. She doesn’t feel fifty. There’s a twenty-five year old kicking around inside Hildie. How, she wondered, did the years sneak up on her? That thought-provoking article led to one of my rare novellas masquerading as a comment.

It led to me to comment about a refrigerator magnet I recently saw; a magnet that expressed my new favorite motto about age.

Maybe because I hadn’t seen it before.

Maybe because it invites participation.

Maybe because my answer can be twelve, twenty, thirty-five, or two — depending on what shenanigans I’ve been up to or plan. So, what are these words of gleedom?

How Old Would You Be If You Didn’t Know Your Age?

[Yeah, I know. Duh! My title pre-snapped that revelation’s garter, didn’t it?]

I don’t believe a number should dictate who I am or how I act or what I can accomplish.

Numbers only pop my kettle corn when they sum to more than I thought I had in my checkbook, when the illusive solution to a Sudoku puzzle materializes, when my word count for the day exceeds goal, when my miles to empty exceeds miles to the next gas station, when…

It makes a difference in my ability to reach goals, dreams, or destinations.

Which logically segues to…

My Least Favorite Socks

I did not purchase these socks.

I wear them when they are the only clean, exercise-friendly socks left in my sock drawer.

It wasn’t until recently that I came to realize why I don’t like them.

The epiphany happened while I sat on the front porch at Sherry Isaac’s house, stretching out a new pair of shoes.

Look at them!

They’re like a “behave” beacon for mischief.

Nonsense is (IMHO) an essential ingredient in life.

That, and the wisdom to pay-it-forward, do no harm, and do the next right thing.

One of my favorite refrains on the soundtrack for Country Strong comes from Kissin’ in Cars (Original artist: Jesse Lee):

If this world I’m living in thinks I’m giving in easy
You’re gonna find out I only go down kickin’ and screaming
I’ll never stop stop chasing, and dreaming and wishing on shooting stars
And I still like kissin’ in cars

I listened to both CD’s of Country Strong during my travels. I know this song by heart. I sing this refrain.

Out loud.

In my car.

When I’m alone.

I would offer a soundtrack of my rendition, but had vocal tuning technical difficulties.

[You’re welcome.]

I still have a lot of mischief-making in me. Too much to list on something I do not have, which is a…

Bucket List

Yup. That’s right. I don’t have a bucket list.

That’s not to say I don’t have goals. I do.

That’s not to say I don’t make lists. I do.

I am a fan of Bucket Lists in general. KUDOS to those of you who have them, and work toward achieving the items listed.

The idea doesn’t work for me. Why? Because I made a joke once that shocked me out of the desire to maintain one.

[YIKES! There are a lot of I, Me, and My’s in this post aren’t there? I could switch to expressing That Goofball’s opinions, but you’d know it was Me, I, and My anyway.]


That Goofball once joked that if she had a bucket list, there would be one item that she couldn’t cross off herself.

[Told ‘ya! You knew it was me, right?]

That one item?

Kick it. The bucket.

I should not have uttered those words.

Plus, I’ve learned that goals and dreams and hopes change with life’s meddling habit of lobbing opportunities and challenges like fast balls in a World Series game.


Yes, I’m blessed with good health, with food on the table, with friends more special than I sometimes deserve, with a wonderful family, and with the ability to dance alone in public whenever I want.

So, until that plan changes for me, I choose to ignore my age.

Those numbers sneak up on us so quickly because they aren’t supposed to be there. Ignore them! They’re from another galaxy. Interlopers!

I’m no saint in the vanity arena. I lather on lotions, and Google foods rich in vitamins good for the skin, and exercise when I’m on my game. But, the years mean nothing. It’s not how we look on the inside that holds us back or propels us forward. It’s how we live on the inside.

So, until a new game plan is issued for me, I choose to do as I suggested to Hildie.

I choose to pick up those excess years, pack them in a basket, and deliver them to the doorstep of someone who chooses to sit on the sidelines and watch the world go by.

So, what’s your opinion? Is it self-centered  or delusional to feel that way? Am I full of malarkey? [It’s okay to say so. Just address those comments to The Goofball.] Finally…

How old would you be if you didn’t know your age?


The oh-so-talented Mary Pax, Brinda Berry, Ciara Knight, Laura Eno are hosting a What’s Your Chocolate? blog-hop today. I’ve already visited several, but rushed back here to add the links. What better way to start a week and end a post about age than with a CHOCO-FEST! Hop the links and enjoy some awesome reads. They have prizes! WOOT!