Itry to go running in the morning before work. The most difficult part of this ritual is not getting up before dawn, or knowing that my husband will be peacefully slumbering for another hour, or even the recent physical challenges that remind my twenty-something body that I'm certainly not 18 anymore. It is, however, the ironically placed Krispy Kreme delivery truck that always seems to be stopped at the market on the last block of my run. One sniff of "chocolate-iced, custard-filled" trumps 40 minutes of resolve.
Iam 67 years old. I play bridge, do crossword puzzles, study Spanish, eat right and exercise. While at a street fair with my son and his family, I walk over and sign up for information about the Appalachian Hiking Club. I write out my street numbers, but I cannot remember my street name. I have lived there for five years. Ten steps away from the table I remember, Nicholson Lane. When I return to my son and his family, I don't tell them what has just happened.
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