“I can’t believe I’m sixty.” My friend Marlena sits across from me over lunch, my treat, a few days after her somewhat raucous sixtieth birthday party, held in a local art gallery and featuring a
DJ and enthusiastic dancing along with the usual delicious food and cake. “I’m not ready to be sixty,” she says in a plaintive voice, shaking her head. “I don’t feel sixty.”
This one is considerably more “edgy” than the previous post. I was going to hold off on it, but there has been such a great
response to “But I Don’t FEEL Sixty . . .” that I have decided to go ahead and put it out now.
I’m eating lunch with my friend Marlena, sitting next to a window streaked by the chill November rain, our umbrellas dripping against the wall.
“Remember our conversation last time?” she says, “The week after my sixtieth birthday party?”
Felton and I were friends in high school. Not real close. He was Black and I was white, and close friendship was a little dicey back then, in the late 50s, in Kansas City, Missouri —
or so it seemed to me at the time. So we would see each other at school, and especially after school, at track practice.
Donald Pelles, PhD
Hypnosis Silver Spring
10410 Kensington Parkway
Kensington, MD 20895