Sometime in the last two seasons, I gained a year. Whether it was because the year turned to 2013, or because I started a job, I was certain I was fifty-three years old. I told everyone I was fifty-three, until last week, when I was filling out an insurance form, I realized I have been fifty-two all along. Somehow, I cheated myself of a year, and leaped. So now in a month or so, I will become fifty-three, but where was the glory of my fifty-second year? Had I known I was so young, I might have done something differently. Taken a vacation, learned Italian. Maybe I would have spent more nights up, arms up, catching hold of the exurberance fifty-two holds. As it was, most nights I went to bed early, a milky bev and a book in hand.
Today, I gained several hours. Looking at the clock, I was convinced that like most of my days, it was bound to be past one, and I had forgotten lunch, and I had to catch up on work. But to my immense pleasure, it was ten minutes before eleven, hardly brunch.
To celebrate my fifty-second year (again), I opened up Dorrie Greenspan’s Baking and made her classic brownies. Then I took a walk. I have many more days in my fifty-second year, and why waste any of it?