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Dear Diary – I had to laugh! After all the complaints about feeling old as I struggled with technology, which included an epilogue as I lost over an hour’s worth of writing to you last week, dear diary (and my coffee warmer refused to change settings for me), I had to help someone not much older than me log into a website. Probably, if she hadn’t been talking at the same time, she would have heard me say “dot ca” more than once and she wouldn’t have typed “dot com”. But there were questions after that too, and I felt less dumb! I appreciated the reminder that struggling with something new, just because it’s electronic, doesn’t make me stupid. It just makes me new!

I eventually found that photo I mentioned too…the one I think of whenever one of my kids is tempted to roll his eyes or risk life and limb and actually comment on my “inabilities” based on age:

He was so proud of himself because he got dressed all by himself. He wasn’t stupid…it was new! 🙂

Dear Diary – I will be making a third trip to the store to find sweat pants that fit my friend. If I strike out again, I’m going to wrap the legs around her neck!

Dear Diary – I will never be a city gal. Every now and then Hubby likes to make fun of me for my “hickisms”, as he calls it. The most recent one being the word “titch”. It means a dash, a bit, a smidgen, a hair. I don’t think it’s that odd, and usually I’m aware I’m saying it and I’m doing it to have fun. I grew up in a small town in a farming community, and like most small towns, there are colloquialisms unique to the area.

The ironic thing is that he also grew up in a small farming community, before and after he immigrated to Canada at the age of 6. In fact, his village is so small that if you blink twice, you’ll miss it. There’s a large Catholic church, a pizzeria, a gas station, a bank, and not much else! There used to be a fire station but it burned down.

To top it off, it has “creek” in its name! I grew up in a town with a river running through it, and a waterfall, and over a dozen churches. I have never seen the official creek by his childhood home, unless it was the trickle of water that ran through some woods on a barely paved road kind of in the middle of nowhere.

I’m not knocking his “hometown”, I just don’t think the kettle ought to be calling the pot orange (because orange is the new black)!

While you were busy throwing stones, you left your closet open and your skeletons fell out.


Dear Diary – No wonder it’s on sale…

Dear Diary – It was the colour that caught my eye. Bright pink and white. Right beside the sink.

When Hubby and I had covid, Youngest Son did everything he could to avoid the upper floor, where we were sequestered in our rooms. That included brushing his teeth at the kitchen sink. I’ve been trying to break him of the habit ever since. Toothbrushes do not belong in the kitchen.

“Sweetie,” I asked. “What colour is this?”

“Pink,” he replied, with a confused look on his face.

I waited.

He stared blankly at me.

We stared at each other. “And what colour is your toothbrush?

“Purple,” he said with a wrinkled furrow.

Yes, my son was using MY toothbrush. Gross!

I would share almost anything with him. I would give up my life for him. But that toothbrush is sacred. I’m going to need a new one!

Dear Diary – The rose waited too long to bloom.

Dear Diary – Sometimes I wonder why I bother baking…and then I remember that I like to eat baking. Sometimes I enjoy the process too. Especially baking bread. I love the calming, tactile experience of making bread from scratch. It brings back happy childhood memories.The aroma encompasses warmly like a hug, and in a house full of men, warm hugs are preferable to smothering farts any day!

I baked bread recently, adding cinnamon, craisins and chopped pecans. But it sat on the counter, uneaten by those I wanted to impress to bless, and grew hard. What to do? Toss my efforts? Waste those pecans? Nope! I made French Toast, and I gotta say, Mmm…

My bread may have been wasted on the guys, but it was not wasted on me!

Dear Diary – Saturday evening marked the monthly “walk of shame” as I tried on several outfits so I would be “decent” leading worship on the platform Sunday morning. The most recent medication I’m trying out has been pretty effective in reducing pain and swelling, and has increased my energy levels to a height I have not seen since I was a teenager. I’m still only enjoying long walks to the fridge, but the house is tidier, I’m more organized and creative, and I’m actually looking forward to the possibility that I’ll be hosting for the holidays (first time!) in my tiny home. So though I was warned the medication would make me fat cause weight gain and puffiness, I’m trying to embrace the changes with grace and just get on with living. Active and round is preferable to inactive and round.

While slightly discouraged but not in despair over the clothing situation, I desperately wanted to embrace my high heels again. It’s been well over a year since they have ventured farther than the closet…only to be held in my hand as I sit on the edge of the bed and sigh. I have mourned high heels, as ridiculous as that may seem, mostly because of how I feel in them. I feel empowered, sexy, tall. I know I should pass them on to a good home where they can live the life they deserve, but I keep hoping that that life will be with me.

I’m slowly accepting that my high-heeled boots will be the first to depart. It’s not just the heel that’s the problem. It’s bending my ankle so I can even slide them on. But with the current healing, I was hoping I could take them for one more parade on the catwalk before I was forced to sell them to cover the cost of heavy, ugly, flat and sensible “old lady” orthopaedic shoes for the remainder of my years.

I didn’t have my rose-coloured glasses on. I knew my black stilettos pushed boundaries when I was still spry. Instead, I tried on my rose-coloured leather Miz Moo boots, only to find that while I can stand in them, I can’t really walk in them. Which is exactly what you’re supposed to do on a cat-walk.

Then I starting trying on other footware: my leopard heels, my velvety red heels, my Italian beige heels, my black and white Jeanne Becker heels, even my blush kitten heels. It was the same story. I apologized to my $10 LouisVuitton heels. I never got to take them anywhere. I apologized to my sassy green boots; they are covered in dust.

I blame covid for stealing my final years.

By the time I was done, my room was a mess of sparkles and clasps and heels. I needed to change from my light-weight sleep shirt to a summer nightie (and not a sexy one lest I give Hubby the wrong impression. “Walk of Shame night” is not the night!) because I had overexerted myself!

I cannot say “this too shall pass”. Heels may well be a part of who I was rather than who I am now. But, like the growing list of health concerns, the joys of the raging inferno of my dying youth, and the regrets of what might have been had I not been so lazy, I need to face this change with grace.

My mother always used to say ‘the older you get, the better you get. Unless you’re a banana!

Betty White