I'm Really 49, or, "I'm Just Saying!"

Picture this, Sicily, 1945:

Tonight I got home from work and I was starvation station. I wanted to eat something wholesome given that I had had a run-in with some sort of Green Tea Matcha White Chocolate bar in the afternoon (I was blindsided by its colorful appearance.) This dinner quickly revealed itself -- it involved a salad of fresh greens, sliced beets, jicama (do you even know what that is? I bet you don't unless you're Susie, who introduced me to it), and homemade vinaigrette. Then I wanted mac and cheese. You know how it is, sometimes you just need some of that good stuff. So I made some. California caveat: it was whole wheat with organic cheddar. And I mixed in broccoli. VOLUNTARILY.

I poured myself a glass of carefully selected wine and sat at what resembled an actual place setting (only vaguely recalling my usual stance, slackjawed, the frigid breeze of the open refridgerator dusting over me, spoon/spork in hand, eyeing an almost-finished tub of pepper hummus but actually unsure of what to attack next).

You see, I am not 29, I am apparently 49.

But wait, it gets better. I dined (party of one) to the sweet sounds of NPR's classical evening tunes while reading my latest book club selection. Move over Bridget Jones, I am working my way through NYTimes columnist Maureen Dowd's Are Men Necessary?

If you'll excuse me, it's time to take my dentures out.