An Admission and

Late last year when the clock ticked, catapulting me into another decade, I was traumatized.

The memorable words of Hemingway leapt to mind:

“For Whom the Bell Tolls.”

Then a well intentioned message from afar reminded me I was now the “Family Matriarch.”

That was not a description I eagerly embraced.

“Family Matriarch” resurrected memories that were not sublime or joyfully welcomed.

And frankly, I had to admit I was not the traditional matriarch material.

I have never patted an infant’s head, or cooed over pictures of friends’ offspring.

Nor have I knitted a stitch in my life.

To be totally honest, not even a devoted family member would welcome a gift I had knitted, crocheted or hemmed.

I know, despite their kindness, I would not be welcomed into any knitting circle.

Ah, no, the new title, well, it was disturbing.

I wondered about many things.

Had I wasted some of my youth not preparing for this new role in life?

Is it too late to reform?

Finally, I decided to allow myself time in an attempt to recoup and perhaps make amends for lack of preparation.

After all, there were some more new books to be read, and words to be written, and the holiday season was approaching.

All valid excuses, I so believed, or wanted to.

Until yesterday, as I sat reading another of Maureen Dowd's Sunday gems, my neighbor, a true inspiration, stopped to say hello.

The tall erect lady was about to embark (despite the frigid temperature) on her daily walk.

Before departing, in response to my routine, “How are you?,” she quietly said:

“I fear I am slowing down.”

And then whispered :

“I am 102.”

I knew then I had learned another lesson.

While I do love Ms. Dowd, she will have to wait now until I finish my walk.

I choose to believe she will understand.