booandbunny

Thanks so much for all the well wishes. Today is the first day I’m really feeling pretty regular. Thanks to hubby I’ve abandoned the pillow the past two days and done a light workout, all the time thinking “The old me never EVER would have left a pillow for a Total Gym!” But, as I said, out-of-town guests are on the horizon and I’m using that as motivation to really make those four workouts a week, instead of assuaging my guilt by saying: “Well, you did three!”

Little Lady 7 got a light case of whatever this bug was. Thank goodness she had no fever. I always worry most when the kids get fevers. She’s a trouper though. All our men are standing tall: Mr. 5 was bolstered by his recently completed antibiotic course; Mr. 6 is quite excited about a belt test with sinsei tonight at the dojo and Hubby all the while was finding a way to fill the house with new songs.

**breathe**

It is good.

So I started today thinking about old westerns for some reason. I was writing in my journal about how the sun felt different today. That morphed into thinking about the specific movie that had westerns on my brain: Hang ’em High with Clint Eastwood and how in these movies every town has an angel and a madame, a church and a saloon. I find this interesting.

I’ve watched a lot of these Clint Eastwood movies, which might sound strange because, well, most women I know don’t. (Despite my knowledge of American sports, old westerns and mobsterwar movies, please take comfort in the fact that I find very little about the Three Stooges appealing!) Besides, one of the biggest reasons to watch these old movies is Clint Eastwood himself. I mean, if only I had been born 20 years earlier!

Then I got to thinking … what if I’d been born 20 years earlier?

Well, I could have gone and seen a lot of Clint Eastwood movies, I tell you that. I could have clipped newspaper articles about The Who and their hotel rooms; traveled to their concerts and those of many, many other amazing artists. I could have told you Paul was my favorite Beatle, but Elvis was my first lust.

I could have gone out on Friday nights in something you might imagine on Kate Jackson and wouldn’t have cared that I was missing The Love Boat and Fantasy Island.

I could have worried why the world seemingly went up in flames and worked to douse the fire. I could have become a journalist when it meant something more than getting paid to write. I could have seen the dawning of a new age.

But wait. Isn’t that what I’ve seen anyway?