On yesterday’s Tyra, they played a game called what age are you going to die. That Tyra is a fun gal. When she’s not giving Andrea Yates a makeover, she’s tackling some heavy duty issues. And she has that rocking wig.
A doctor predicted what age of some audience members would be when
they croaked based on their lifestyle choices. He predicted that one
woman who was too worried about her appearance was going to die early,
because she was more concerned about external beauty than internal
beauty. She spent more time on thinking about skin creams than eating a
balanced diet.
Why the hell was I watching the Tyra Banks show? Because I was so
completely fried. I was grading papers until 2:00 the night before and
had been on the kids-work-kids-work treadmill. I have been eating crap
or justing skipping that eating thing all together. I haven’t been to
the gym in two weeks. I’m dead at 50.
Last week, I called Steve for the mid-afternoon check in. I told him
that all I had eaten that day was a blueberry scone and two Oreos. He
said that he had consumed just Altoids and coffee. Maybe 50 is a bit
optimistic.
So, I stocked piled on sleep yesterday. I’m going to leisurely grade
papers in my pajamas. Right now, there’s a bowl of cereal with my name
on it.
Apt. 11d 