I grow old, I grow old,
I...wear the bottom of my trousers rolled... (T.S. Eliot)
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Now I know what he meant. The older I get, the shorter I get. Capri pants get to be ankle pants. Bermuda shorts become crops. And watching myself hop around town on my sore foot makes me sincerely repent the embarrassment I felt at being seen with my mother in her walking-stick days. My punishment is looking in the mirror and seeing her face and her poor crooked back.
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But most of the time, I don't give a hoot.
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Today I sold the little Eames era chair.
4 comments:
It's a cute chair, but I've always wondered what the heck it would be useful for!
Well, it was good for about fifty bucks.
That's pretty good. :)
You need to do something about that sore foot. Go see a foot doctor.
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