Tomorrow morning, I am running the annual Turkey Trot. A 5K race that will probably kill me. I haven't run in a while, and I'm a little anxious about the prospect of doing it tomorrow. However, if I am anything, it's a person of tradition. I haven't missed the Turkey Trot in almost 15 years.
Then, there's Thanksgiving dinner. Actually, it's going to be Thanksgiving lunch. For some reason, the decision to eat early was made. I think it has something to do with the Black Friday sales that start at 5 p.m. on Thursday. (Side note to any CEO of a large corporation: your employees deserve to enjoy Thanksgiving with their families, too. I will NEVER participate in Black Friday that starts on Thanksgiving afternoon.)
So, Saint Marty is going to bed early tonight, hopefully, to rest his wattles for the Turkey Trot in the morning.
Ode to Wattles
by: Sharon Olds
I want to write about my wattles--oooo, I
lust after it.
I want to hold a mirror under my
chin so I can see the new
events in solid geometry
occurring below my jaw, which was
all bone till now, and now is jam-packed
reticule. I love to be a little
disgusting, to go as far as I can
into the thrilling unloveliness
of an elderwoman's aging. It is like daring
time, and the ancient laws of eros,
at once. But when I look down,
into the compact's pool, and see
my face hanging down from the bottom of my face,
like a raft woven of popsicle sticks,
my nursing-home neck,
then, though I'm willing to age and die
for there to be sex and children,
the slackness of the drapery, and the
inside-out pockets of the jowls shock me.
I thought it wouldn't go far with me
that I would be geology,
my throat a rippling of synclines and anticlines
back when the crust was warm, and I
was hot. Secretly, I don't know yet
that I'm not, but I bow my head to time,
and count my withered chins, three five seven
nine, my muses, my truth which is not
beauty--my crone beauty, in its first youth.
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