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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?