No One Really Tells You The Hardest Part Of Getting Older
The older I get, the more I realize how much I don’t know. But there’s one thing I know for sure.
No one ever died wishing they’d worked more, she said, rightness written all over her pretty face.
Dig taken.
I don’t know, I said.
No one ever died wishing they’d watched one more episode of Friends, either I say and she rolls her eyes.
No one ever died wishing they’d kept the house cleaner, either I say.
Untold hours folding laundry, sweeping floors, mopping floors, and pushing the mawing beast to hoover up dust bunnies that will magically reappear in the same damn spot again next week, and the week after.
But we keep doing it, don’t we?
Did you know, I say, if you spend an hour every day cleaning the house and live to the ripe old age of 80, you’ll have spent over one thousand days of your life cleaning the damn house?
What could you have done with a thousand days?
Face pinched, she won’t look at me, but I keep talking because I never did know when to shut my big mouth.
