But I don’t FEEL Sixty

“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.”

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Sixty More? – Sequel to But 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.
— Don

 

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?”

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Getting back in touch

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.

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Stop Settling!

“Janice settled,” Marlena declares to me.

 

We are sitting by the window at the Little Bakery, meeting for lunch on a sunny, cold day in January.

 

“That’s a judgment on your part,” I reply, finding her statement a little bit offensive.

 

 “I suppose it is,” she says, “but it’s pretty clear.”

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