THE LULU CHRONICLES
This morning’s ride on LuLu was a teeth-chatterer—forty-two degrees, folks. Last night we were warned that there might be frost so I brought in some of my potted plants, the ones I want to keep over the winter. You know, the ones I want to die a slower torturous death from my lack of attention and neglect. Yep, there’s been a change of the guard; a new season has begun. Autumn has arrived.
A new season. I love it. September is like my New Year’s. I love the hope and promise it brings. My schedule shifts a bit. The landscape changes from greens and pinks to oranges and yellows. Short sleeves are traded for long ones. Capri’s turn into big girl pants that cover the entire leg; and, my two favorites come into play, socks and sweatshirts! Bring it on!
Lately, I’ve noticed that not only are the earth’s seasons changing, but so are mine, and I’m not quite as excited about mine. Aches have settled into joints that used to be lubricated and strong. My hair has changed from a vibrant brown to a… battleship gray. And, I find myself putting my pajamas on earlier and earlier in the evening. I figure at this rate soon I’ll be wearing them all day long.
Well, I decided something had to change. At age 61, I figure there’s a good chance I’m still going to live for a while, so instead of moaning and bemoaning the change of my season, I should embrace it and figure out how to appreciate it and well… do it better. So, I started looking for books to read that would help with that. I mean, I’ve read books about every stage of my life, from dating, to marriage, to giving birth, to parenting, to empty-nesting and they’ve all either helped me prepare for the next season, or been a life-saver when I found myself overwhelmed by the season itself. So why not this? There really must be a way to age gracefully, don’t you think?
Of course one of my first steps in this process was to bring LuLu into my life. My pink bike has done wonders for my body and my soul. I’m now half way through a pretty good book that tells me that I’m actually, at the age of sixty-one, the ‘teenager of old age’, more accurately, I’m a pre-teen. I’m liking that thought, because I know I’ve seen teenyboppers at the mall in their pajamas pants. I think I’m going to like this season.
More about this as time goes on…