[Small digression into the memory of last night's excellent meal: swordfish steaks marinated in lime juice, garlic, hot pepper, and marjoram. Served with couscous salad. Followed by pitted cherries with whipped cream.]
Today the temperature is supposed to reach the mid-80s. Spring, we barely knew you. My drawers are still full of wool sweaters.
[Small digression into a small rant: Who the hell are these women? Do they really exist? Or am I living on the Planet of the Apes? To the best of my knowledge, I don't know anyone--anyone--who deals with aging like this. I think this is sick . . . and I speak as a woman who does wear a minor amount of makeup and does shave her legs and does worry about her looks to a certain degree. I don't color my hair, though I occasionally consider it. I don't wear nail polish because I hate the way it makes my nails feel heavy. I do feel melancholy about growing older. But perhaps I've been under the delusion that melancholy is an essential element of the human experience.][Small digression into poetry: As my friend Baron Wormser writes in his poem "Mulroney," these are the women who are "groomed to run the show."As his character Mulroney remarks in reply, "How sad."]