it has been said ...

that i am 28 going on 80. since when does excitement over buying a vacuum cleaner (if you had as much cat hair in your apartment as i do in mine from my two furry beasts, you'd be excited too!) and love of green veggies constitute a premature descent into old age? maybe margaret atwood (aka "peggy") was right. i am getting old.

okay, that peggy reference was unnecessarily vague. prior to the beginnings of this blog, i had the good (bad?) fortune of meeting up with margaret atwood at a book festival on my birthday. as she was autographing a chapbook of her new release that should be hitting the shelves soon, i playfully mentioned that it was my birthday. she responded by coldly asking how old i was. i told her, and joked that i was getting old. she looked up from the front page of the chapbook, peered at me with those scary eyes over the rims of her glasses and said in a very chilling voice, right out of the handmaiden's tale, "yes, my dear. you are getting old." shiver. i'm surprised that it hasn't become a recurring nightmare. pherhaps when i actually am 80 (going on 28?) she will come back to haunt me.