A wonderful writer (whose name I can’t remember, haha) said: once you turn seventy, face it, you’re old. Jane Fonda notwithstanding, I might add. Upon reaching the milestone, and urged on by a co-worker who knows about these things, I finally began to think about making my end-of-life arrangements. I’d felt a nagging awareness of the necessity to plan for years, but I always succeeded in pushing it to the back of my mind. I had other priorities on the weekends, like doing the laundry or going to the farmer’s market, or getting my hair cut. At first I was elated to be taking care of business at last. I was happy that soon I would be able to cross this pesky chore off my to-do list. The reality of choosing a container for my ashes and trying to figure out what to do with them deflated me, though. It was all too real. To be honest, I was bummed.

Plus, it led to a kind of life review in which I came to the realization that (a) I have not succeeded in becoming world-famous as my mother wished, (b) nobody needs me any more, and (c) some people find me annoying. It was a little surprising. That was a month ago. A consultation with my sister-in-law at her home in the Sierra foothills last week was comforting. She told me  that many people share my feelings.

Then today, an epiphany: I may yearn for the tender bondage of being needed, but on the other hand I am free. Further, I’ve been trying to do the right thing all my life and I haven’t been very good at it. I think I’ll stop trying now. More to come.

As for being annoying, there’s not much I can do about that.