I'm sitting here, feet up, trying reach over The Cat to get to the keyboard without toppling the coffee, the trackball, the mail or The Cat. The Cat is on my lap over there by the spare Enter key that all keyboards seem to have. This is positioned so that chin rubs and other affiliative gestures can insert random line feeds into whatever I'm working on.
Since it's August 6th, albeit early in the morning of, I am doing my usual grumping and muttering about getting a year older in the span of 24 hours. Matters not that I am still in my 20s mentally, my drivers license and knee joints declare that they know full well I'm falling down the cliff toward 60. I'll spend the next 11 months on the 56 plateau then topple over another step when next August shows up. It seems to take significantly less time for this to occur each year. I just had a birthday a few months ago, in August 2006. Therefore it cannot be time for another.
I make my personal New Years resolutions, writing them carefully in a notebook I know I'll never find again this year. Act my age is not one of them. I drop the pen, glare as it pirouettes in midair and vanishes into the darkness beneath the desk. Sigh. Grab another from a nearby pen collector/coffee mug. It wouldn't do to disturb The Cat for something so mundane as a writing instrument.
The Cat looks up, then stretches a reassuring paw over to pat my neck. Never once has she told me to act my age. Bless her soul.
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