Our new toilets are installed, although our instructions are that we're not to sit on them for the next five hours (it's a good thing there's a third toilet in the house). The downstairs toilet is black. The upstairs toilet is white. They both fit properly in their assigned spots and flush
nicely.
However they are both 15 inches rather than 17 inches high. Someone mixed the order up
and I was out when the installer came. Oh well. We've lived with standard height toilets
for the past 6 or so decades - and we will continue to do so for the next 6... I hope!
Monday, June 29, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Toilet Tales...
About a year ago the toilet in our downstairs powder room developed an annoying habit. Every once in a while, for no apparent reason, its innards would somehow release and a gentle whooshing sound would occcur.
(At this point I feel I should state I am not a plumber, nor am I related to one - in fact as far as I know I don't even have a social connection to any plumbers. Therefore I have no idea about the technical terminology for, or the inner workings of toilets - or sinks or bathtubs for that matter. Mind you, I do consider myself somewhat handy around the house, and can sometimes perform minor miracles with a butter knife and Crazy Glue.)
There was no evidence of leakage (my first concern), and the toilet continued to function correctly, doing exactly what toilets are supposed to do. At first we tried to ignore it. But the whooshing continued. There was no pattern or rhythm to it - it was just random whooshing.
After a few days I decided enough was enough. I marched into the bathroom and glared at the offending commode. It didn't whoosh. (I have been told I have an effective glare.) I removed the lid from the tank at the back and looked inside. As far as I could figure, everything seemed fine. There was water in the tank, the big ball thing was floating, all chains were attached, and the plug at the bottom was appropriately plugged. I stuck my hand into the water and jiggled a few things just to be on the safe side, because you never know - sometimes judicious jiggling will do the trick.
In the meantime, perhaps because we had become more 'toilet aware', we noticed that our upstairs toilet was running on for an unusually long time after being flushed.
We called a plumber.
$300 later the innards of the downstairs toilet had been replaced and the upstairs toilet had been seen to. The plumber, who seemed to know what he was about, informed us that whatever he had done would most likely turn out to be temporary, and that we were due for new toilets, probably sooner rather than later.
He left.
We continued to whoosh and run on.
We decided to live with it.
Until last week, when we realized the whooshing had intensified, and the running on was running on... and on....
Did you know Home Depot has an extensive toilet section? Row upon row of brand new toilets to choose from. You can select toilets by brand, by shape, by height, and by flush performance. You can opt for various degrees of outlet size, flush valve size and of course, bulk removal (you can figure that one out for yourself). There are round bowls and elongated bowls (we opted for the latter on the advice of our very pleasant and extremely knowledgeable toilet sales person, Eugene, who told us it was a 'guy thing'.) There are one piece, two piece, and wall mounted toilets. And of course one must also consider overall performance, comfort, and style.
After much deliberation, and in consultation with Eugene, we chose two toilets. Along with our elongated bowls, we went with chair height - 'for taller people'. (One of us qualifies, the other will just have to adjust).
The upstairs toilet was not much of an issue. A white, one piece Kohler, all parts included. The downstairs commode was another kettle of fish. Unfortunately our home was built in the 80s. Styles and tastes have definitely changed since then. The fixtures in the powder room are black. A 'special order'.
Our new, black, twice the price of the white one, downstairs toilet will come in two separate pieces, and not include the rubber ring thingie that goes around the bottom or the shut off valves. It will also not include the seat. A black seat. Another (read expensive) special order. There are also installation fees. And 'haul away' fees. We opted to forgo the delivery fees and will be picking up our new toilets when we are called to do so. I hope they fit in the back of the SUV.
So there we were, two hours and almost $900 later, wandering through Home Depot with a 7 page toilet contract in hand. We ended up in the garden center where I bought two flats of impatiens and a bag of red mulch for just over $20. (The flowers are already planted and mulched, and I didn't charge myself extra for the watering.)
But I just know we're going to feel very, very special when we plunk ourselves down (in style and comfort) on our brand new, specially ordered, chair height, elongated, black toilet and seat.
About a year ago the toilet in our downstairs powder room developed an annoying habit. Every once in a while, for no apparent reason, its innards would somehow release and a gentle whooshing sound would occcur.
(At this point I feel I should state I am not a plumber, nor am I related to one - in fact as far as I know I don't even have a social connection to any plumbers. Therefore I have no idea about the technical terminology for, or the inner workings of toilets - or sinks or bathtubs for that matter. Mind you, I do consider myself somewhat handy around the house, and can sometimes perform minor miracles with a butter knife and Crazy Glue.)
There was no evidence of leakage (my first concern), and the toilet continued to function correctly, doing exactly what toilets are supposed to do. At first we tried to ignore it. But the whooshing continued. There was no pattern or rhythm to it - it was just random whooshing.
After a few days I decided enough was enough. I marched into the bathroom and glared at the offending commode. It didn't whoosh. (I have been told I have an effective glare.) I removed the lid from the tank at the back and looked inside. As far as I could figure, everything seemed fine. There was water in the tank, the big ball thing was floating, all chains were attached, and the plug at the bottom was appropriately plugged. I stuck my hand into the water and jiggled a few things just to be on the safe side, because you never know - sometimes judicious jiggling will do the trick.
In the meantime, perhaps because we had become more 'toilet aware', we noticed that our upstairs toilet was running on for an unusually long time after being flushed.
We called a plumber.
$300 later the innards of the downstairs toilet had been replaced and the upstairs toilet had been seen to. The plumber, who seemed to know what he was about, informed us that whatever he had done would most likely turn out to be temporary, and that we were due for new toilets, probably sooner rather than later.
He left.
We continued to whoosh and run on.
We decided to live with it.
Until last week, when we realized the whooshing had intensified, and the running on was running on... and on....
Did you know Home Depot has an extensive toilet section? Row upon row of brand new toilets to choose from. You can select toilets by brand, by shape, by height, and by flush performance. You can opt for various degrees of outlet size, flush valve size and of course, bulk removal (you can figure that one out for yourself). There are round bowls and elongated bowls (we opted for the latter on the advice of our very pleasant and extremely knowledgeable toilet sales person, Eugene, who told us it was a 'guy thing'.) There are one piece, two piece, and wall mounted toilets. And of course one must also consider overall performance, comfort, and style.
After much deliberation, and in consultation with Eugene, we chose two toilets. Along with our elongated bowls, we went with chair height - 'for taller people'. (One of us qualifies, the other will just have to adjust).
The upstairs toilet was not much of an issue. A white, one piece Kohler, all parts included. The downstairs commode was another kettle of fish. Unfortunately our home was built in the 80s. Styles and tastes have definitely changed since then. The fixtures in the powder room are black. A 'special order'.
Our new, black, twice the price of the white one, downstairs toilet will come in two separate pieces, and not include the rubber ring thingie that goes around the bottom or the shut off valves. It will also not include the seat. A black seat. Another (read expensive) special order. There are also installation fees. And 'haul away' fees. We opted to forgo the delivery fees and will be picking up our new toilets when we are called to do so. I hope they fit in the back of the SUV.
So there we were, two hours and almost $900 later, wandering through Home Depot with a 7 page toilet contract in hand. We ended up in the garden center where I bought two flats of impatiens and a bag of red mulch for just over $20. (The flowers are already planted and mulched, and I didn't charge myself extra for the watering.)
But I just know we're going to feel very, very special when we plunk ourselves down (in style and comfort) on our brand new, specially ordered, chair height, elongated, black toilet and seat.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
I had good intentions... really I did.
I was going to be a steady and constant Blogger, describing the day to day annoyances of aging with grace and dignity. I was going to get myself to my desk (well, really, my dining room table) every morning, like clockwork, sit down at my laptop, and Blog away. I was going to become an active member of the Blogosphere.
(Isn't it amazing. by the way, how the Internet has added to the English language? Blogosphere. 'Netiquette. Cyberspace. Smileys. Twittering - I have recently begun to Twitter. Something else to keep up with.)
But I digress. Since my last entry I have had four weeks (off and on) of visitors, several days in Disney World with grandchildren (this experience in itself should be good for at least one Blog entry on its own), five or six dinner parties, baby sat for two dogs, played too many rounds of extremely frustrating golf and dealt with a household full of flu. I also have what I laughably call a career, which does take up some time, albiet far less than I would like. And of course, I've got to keep up with everyone else's Blogs.
They say if you ask a busy person to do something, they will do it far more quickly than someone whose time is, shall we say, less full. Nonsense, I say. I'm busy, there's no doubt about it. But do I get things done more quickly? I don't think so - at least not any more. Oh, they get done all right, but my attitude about doing them has definitely changed. I find myself thinking that life is far too short to worry about whether the laundry will be done today when it can be done tomorrow. I find I don't obsess over whether my pantry is out of order when I can't find the Hoisin sauce. I just change my dinner menu from stir fry to grilled chicken and get on with it. And I don't tidy up the pantry for at least another two days. I sit down in the evening to read for twenty minutes and don't get up for an hour. So I didn't sew the button on my husband's trousers, his belt will work fine for another couple of days - they'll hold his pants up and hide the gape nicely. And I certainly didn't fold what laundry I did end up doing. Because it will be there tomorrow.
And I didn't Blog.
Perhaps I should change the name of this Blog to Procrastinating Gracefully.
I was going to be a steady and constant Blogger, describing the day to day annoyances of aging with grace and dignity. I was going to get myself to my desk (well, really, my dining room table) every morning, like clockwork, sit down at my laptop, and Blog away. I was going to become an active member of the Blogosphere.
(Isn't it amazing. by the way, how the Internet has added to the English language? Blogosphere. 'Netiquette. Cyberspace. Smileys. Twittering - I have recently begun to Twitter. Something else to keep up with.)
But I digress. Since my last entry I have had four weeks (off and on) of visitors, several days in Disney World with grandchildren (this experience in itself should be good for at least one Blog entry on its own), five or six dinner parties, baby sat for two dogs, played too many rounds of extremely frustrating golf and dealt with a household full of flu. I also have what I laughably call a career, which does take up some time, albiet far less than I would like. And of course, I've got to keep up with everyone else's Blogs.
They say if you ask a busy person to do something, they will do it far more quickly than someone whose time is, shall we say, less full. Nonsense, I say. I'm busy, there's no doubt about it. But do I get things done more quickly? I don't think so - at least not any more. Oh, they get done all right, but my attitude about doing them has definitely changed. I find myself thinking that life is far too short to worry about whether the laundry will be done today when it can be done tomorrow. I find I don't obsess over whether my pantry is out of order when I can't find the Hoisin sauce. I just change my dinner menu from stir fry to grilled chicken and get on with it. And I don't tidy up the pantry for at least another two days. I sit down in the evening to read for twenty minutes and don't get up for an hour. So I didn't sew the button on my husband's trousers, his belt will work fine for another couple of days - they'll hold his pants up and hide the gape nicely. And I certainly didn't fold what laundry I did end up doing. Because it will be there tomorrow.
And I didn't Blog.
Perhaps I should change the name of this Blog to Procrastinating Gracefully.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Traveling ... through time...
I've always been a fairly efficient and organized person. In fact, at one point I was known in some circles as 'The Organizer'. I could juggle children, husband, work and various and sundry projects with relative ease. I made reservations, planned parties, chaired meetings, balanced checkbooks, prepared budgets ... and dinners, with relative ease.
I know I can still do it all, albeit perhaps with a bit less speed, but recently there have been a few.... well... glitches.
It started about a year ago.
I made airline reservations to go to our son's wedding. A relatively simple process - something I've done countless times. I found the flights, dates and and times I wanted, and called the airline. Because it was an airmiles ticket, I had to compromise on the airport. I wanted West Palm Beach, they insisted they could only provide me with flights out of Fort Lauderdale. I booked it, they emailed the tickets, I printed them and filed them in our 'Current Travel' file.
Fast forward several months. We head to the airport and arrive in plenty of time at... yes... you guessed it... the West Palm Beach Airport.
"Do you realize you're at the wrong airport?" When the check-in attendant asked me the question, she did it kindly, although I believe there might have been more than a hint of pity in her tone. I cannot repeat my reply here.
Looking back, I realize the error was possibly one of commission - subconsciously I wanted to leave from West Palm Beach; as well as ommission - I forgot to check the tickets - something I've never, ever done before. Talk about mortifying. (As a side note, for a $50 fee, we were able to fly out of West Palm Beach that morning on the flight I originally wanted. And for no fee at all we were able to fly back to West Palm Beach three days later. Go figure.)
I thought I'd learned my lesson.
Until this week. I'd booked several flights in one evening. Me to Toronto; husband to Toronto several days later; both of us to New York a few days after that. Once again the tickets were printed and filed.
Luckily the error in the date was discovered before I showed up at the airport one day early.
I know deep down I'm still the organized and efficient person I always was. True, I sometimes walk into a room and forget why I'm there. I make lists and forget to take them with me. Or read a paragraph in a book twice before I realize I've read it before. But I absolutely refuse to attribute these minor lapses to age. I've come up with a much more reasonable explanation:
I know I can still do it all, albeit perhaps with a bit less speed, but recently there have been a few.... well... glitches.
It started about a year ago.
I made airline reservations to go to our son's wedding. A relatively simple process - something I've done countless times. I found the flights, dates and and times I wanted, and called the airline. Because it was an airmiles ticket, I had to compromise on the airport. I wanted West Palm Beach, they insisted they could only provide me with flights out of Fort Lauderdale. I booked it, they emailed the tickets, I printed them and filed them in our 'Current Travel' file.
Fast forward several months. We head to the airport and arrive in plenty of time at... yes... you guessed it... the West Palm Beach Airport.
"Do you realize you're at the wrong airport?" When the check-in attendant asked me the question, she did it kindly, although I believe there might have been more than a hint of pity in her tone. I cannot repeat my reply here.
Looking back, I realize the error was possibly one of commission - subconsciously I wanted to leave from West Palm Beach; as well as ommission - I forgot to check the tickets - something I've never, ever done before. Talk about mortifying. (As a side note, for a $50 fee, we were able to fly out of West Palm Beach that morning on the flight I originally wanted. And for no fee at all we were able to fly back to West Palm Beach three days later. Go figure.)
I thought I'd learned my lesson.
Until this week. I'd booked several flights in one evening. Me to Toronto; husband to Toronto several days later; both of us to New York a few days after that. Once again the tickets were printed and filed.
Luckily the error in the date was discovered before I showed up at the airport one day early.
I know deep down I'm still the organized and efficient person I always was. True, I sometimes walk into a room and forget why I'm there. I make lists and forget to take them with me. Or read a paragraph in a book twice before I realize I've read it before. But I absolutely refuse to attribute these minor lapses to age. I've come up with a much more reasonable explanation:
Information Overload.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Waxing....
...Poetic?
Not so much!
I brush my hair every morning... and every morning I notice there are more and more hairs on the brush, in the sink and on the floor. And on my upper lip.
Is there some magic moment when our bodies decide to do some sort of biological switch and transfer what's supposed to be on our heads elsewhere?
Don't get me wrong - I still have what I consider to be a healthy head of hair. It's graying relatively slowly, which is a relief, and although it's become a lot coarser recently, it continues to cover my scalp nicely, and seems to be growing and replacing what's been falling out at a reasonable rate.
But the hair on my upper lip - and now, according to the lovely young woman who does my regular waxing - my chin -is also growing and spreading at an alarming rate.
Every morning I shove my face as close to the mirror as I can (this procedure must be done before I put in my contact lenses, otherwise my close-up vision is far too compromised to accomplish anything, even with my $9.00 flea market 'readers'), and try to remove the hairs that have sprouted over the previous 24 hours. I never know where these little shoots are going to be - under my nose, on the side of my lip, on my chin or even, as I discovered this morning, much to my dismay, on my cheek. The very worst ones are beneath my jaw: try lifting your head, holding onto your chin, feeling around for the sharp prick of a coarse yet invisible hair while wielding a small pair of sharp tweezers. Then see if you can latch those tweezers onto that hair and pull it out. Without, of course, catching the side of your neck and leaving angry little welts on the skin.
I was able to avoid waxing for a long time. Mostly because I was chicken and didn't like the idea of paying for pain. I succumbed several years ago when during a 'once in a blue moon facial' (it was my birthday present to me) the esthetician convinced me that it was the right thing to do 'at my age.' Who was I to argue with someone who was gently massaging my scalp, neck and shoulders in a candle lit room, with ocean, bird and cello sounds playing softly in the background? I said 'Do it', and she did. Ouch.
However I liked the smooth feel and the look of my freshly waxed vermillion (look it up!), and I decided the pain was worth it. At first, I did it once every 6-8 weeks. The hair, when it did grow back, remained soft and blonde. But then things started to change - just about the time, I now realize - I noticed the aforementioned increasing amount of head hair loss.
So I began to schedule regular appointments. Every 6 weeks. And then, every 5 weeks. You get the idea.
It's not that I mind the pain. Really, I don't. In fact, I almost welcome it, because I know the result will be the removal of those blasted little hairs. I just wish it didn't seem as if each time another chin hair appears, another head hair hits the floor.
My next wax is in 2 1/2 weeks.
Not so much!
I brush my hair every morning... and every morning I notice there are more and more hairs on the brush, in the sink and on the floor. And on my upper lip.
Is there some magic moment when our bodies decide to do some sort of biological switch and transfer what's supposed to be on our heads elsewhere?
Don't get me wrong - I still have what I consider to be a healthy head of hair. It's graying relatively slowly, which is a relief, and although it's become a lot coarser recently, it continues to cover my scalp nicely, and seems to be growing and replacing what's been falling out at a reasonable rate.
But the hair on my upper lip - and now, according to the lovely young woman who does my regular waxing - my chin -is also growing and spreading at an alarming rate.
Every morning I shove my face as close to the mirror as I can (this procedure must be done before I put in my contact lenses, otherwise my close-up vision is far too compromised to accomplish anything, even with my $9.00 flea market 'readers'), and try to remove the hairs that have sprouted over the previous 24 hours. I never know where these little shoots are going to be - under my nose, on the side of my lip, on my chin or even, as I discovered this morning, much to my dismay, on my cheek. The very worst ones are beneath my jaw: try lifting your head, holding onto your chin, feeling around for the sharp prick of a coarse yet invisible hair while wielding a small pair of sharp tweezers. Then see if you can latch those tweezers onto that hair and pull it out. Without, of course, catching the side of your neck and leaving angry little welts on the skin.
I was able to avoid waxing for a long time. Mostly because I was chicken and didn't like the idea of paying for pain. I succumbed several years ago when during a 'once in a blue moon facial' (it was my birthday present to me) the esthetician convinced me that it was the right thing to do 'at my age.' Who was I to argue with someone who was gently massaging my scalp, neck and shoulders in a candle lit room, with ocean, bird and cello sounds playing softly in the background? I said 'Do it', and she did. Ouch.
However I liked the smooth feel and the look of my freshly waxed vermillion (look it up!), and I decided the pain was worth it. At first, I did it once every 6-8 weeks. The hair, when it did grow back, remained soft and blonde. But then things started to change - just about the time, I now realize - I noticed the aforementioned increasing amount of head hair loss.
So I began to schedule regular appointments. Every 6 weeks. And then, every 5 weeks. You get the idea.
It's not that I mind the pain. Really, I don't. In fact, I almost welcome it, because I know the result will be the removal of those blasted little hairs. I just wish it didn't seem as if each time another chin hair appears, another head hair hits the floor.
My next wax is in 2 1/2 weeks.
Friday, October 24, 2008
DeFeet
I used to have feet.
Don't get me wrong, they're still there, attached, as they always have been, to my ankles, but they're different now. They used to be somewhat cute (if feet can be cute), neat and compact. I had no hesitation about displaying them in chic little sandals and pumps. But now, it seems, they've grown, flattened, spread and somehow even changed direction. And I really hadn't noticed until yesterday when I went to buy new sneakers.
I thought I was being very clever when I wrote down the size, model number and style name of my old shoes. "I'll just replace them exactly," I thought. "Go into the shoe store, tell them what I want and that'll be it. Maybe I'll try them on, just in case..."
Good thing I did.
Those exact same sneakers - just like the ones I've been wearing on my morning walk for the past two years - didn't fit at all. They looked the same all right, but when I put them on... nope. Not even close. I needed a half size larger, and a wider fit. And a different make entirely. (I've been wearing the same brand for years - I'm a very loyal consumer.)
Now I've been having 'foot issues' for a while. Heel spurs (hurt like hell) have made orthotics a necessity. I have two pair - one for 'party shoes' the other for 'sports shoes', and they work quite nicely. I've found sandals with good support (Mephistos if you're interested - too expensive, but they last for seven years; then you send them back to the factory and they'll rebuild them for you for $75, which means they'll last for another seven years. Therefore the actual exorbitant price can be amortized over 14 years or so, which makes their cost somewhat justifiable... but I digress). However through it all my feet - at least the look of them - stayed the same. Or so I thought.
I looked at them - really looked at them - this morning. They're definitely wider. The toes are... well... lumpier, and they seem to be pointing in a bit of a different direction. A couple of the toenails are looking thicker and slightly off color. (Bright red polish will fix that, no doubt).
So no more cute little 'Betty Crocker F*^k Me' shoes for me. Not that I've worn them in ages, but I still felt I could justifiably eye them in the shoe store when I saw them. No more. I'll head right to the sensible section and shop there.
Isn't that grown up of me?
I'm going for a walk...
Don't get me wrong, they're still there, attached, as they always have been, to my ankles, but they're different now. They used to be somewhat cute (if feet can be cute), neat and compact. I had no hesitation about displaying them in chic little sandals and pumps. But now, it seems, they've grown, flattened, spread and somehow even changed direction. And I really hadn't noticed until yesterday when I went to buy new sneakers.
I thought I was being very clever when I wrote down the size, model number and style name of my old shoes. "I'll just replace them exactly," I thought. "Go into the shoe store, tell them what I want and that'll be it. Maybe I'll try them on, just in case..."
Good thing I did.
Those exact same sneakers - just like the ones I've been wearing on my morning walk for the past two years - didn't fit at all. They looked the same all right, but when I put them on... nope. Not even close. I needed a half size larger, and a wider fit. And a different make entirely. (I've been wearing the same brand for years - I'm a very loyal consumer.)
Now I've been having 'foot issues' for a while. Heel spurs (hurt like hell) have made orthotics a necessity. I have two pair - one for 'party shoes' the other for 'sports shoes', and they work quite nicely. I've found sandals with good support (Mephistos if you're interested - too expensive, but they last for seven years; then you send them back to the factory and they'll rebuild them for you for $75, which means they'll last for another seven years. Therefore the actual exorbitant price can be amortized over 14 years or so, which makes their cost somewhat justifiable... but I digress). However through it all my feet - at least the look of them - stayed the same. Or so I thought.
I looked at them - really looked at them - this morning. They're definitely wider. The toes are... well... lumpier, and they seem to be pointing in a bit of a different direction. A couple of the toenails are looking thicker and slightly off color. (Bright red polish will fix that, no doubt).
So no more cute little 'Betty Crocker F*^k Me' shoes for me. Not that I've worn them in ages, but I still felt I could justifiably eye them in the shoe store when I saw them. No more. I'll head right to the sensible section and shop there.
Isn't that grown up of me?
I'm going for a walk...
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Question
I've been thinking about a conversation I overheard between my mother and one of her childhood friends. It was probably about 15 years ago.
We were walking ... it was a magnificent Vermont evening just turning to dusk. I was slightly ahead of the two of them, walking one of our series of beloved sheepdogs - far enough in front to
allow her to snuffle and sniff to her heart's content, but close enough to be able to listen in on
their conversation. At first it wasn't a deliberate attempt to eavesdrop, but their discussion intrigued me and I slowed down in order to hear them.
I can't recall who said what, but I'll never forget what they said:
"How did I get to be seventy? I don't feel like I'm seventy."
"I know. I get out of bed in the morning and my feet hurt and my back aches and
I desperately have to pee. But in my heart I'm maybe... twenty-five."
"Exactly. It's so odd. I think I can do things - and I can. But I seem to do them so much more slowly."
"It's like it's me, but it's not me. And the person in the mirror in the in the morning is definitely not me, either. I know I'm in there, but who's that stranger looking back at me?"
And now, from my current perspective, I understand.
We were walking ... it was a magnificent Vermont evening just turning to dusk. I was slightly ahead of the two of them, walking one of our series of beloved sheepdogs - far enough in front to
allow her to snuffle and sniff to her heart's content, but close enough to be able to listen in on
their conversation. At first it wasn't a deliberate attempt to eavesdrop, but their discussion intrigued me and I slowed down in order to hear them.
I can't recall who said what, but I'll never forget what they said:
"How did I get to be seventy? I don't feel like I'm seventy."
"I know. I get out of bed in the morning and my feet hurt and my back aches and
I desperately have to pee. But in my heart I'm maybe... twenty-five."
"Exactly. It's so odd. I think I can do things - and I can. But I seem to do them so much more slowly."
"It's like it's me, but it's not me. And the person in the mirror in the in the morning is definitely not me, either. I know I'm in there, but who's that stranger looking back at me?"
And now, from my current perspective, I understand.
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