English: Phyllis Diller portrait (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
No, although David follows the UNC team, I am not talking about basketball. I am speaking of the return of the baby bunnies or March hares. The Easter rabbit is alive and well in our neighborhood.
And the hawks know it too. Yesterday, when David and I were sitting on our bench in the warm sun, I looked up to see five, count ’em, five hawks flying overhead. They were staying out of shotgun range, not that anyone in my neighborhood of aging women owns a shotgun, and heaven forfend, we don’t kill baby bunnies either. Thus they are taking over the neighborhood.
I’ve kept two strawberry pots for years, but last year I didn’t get a single one. Then I noticed many of my plants had developed scalloped edges around their leaves. The sedum, which contain moisture proved the favorite choice of the offending creatures.
I almost felt sad when Johnny, my fierce Pomeranian caught a baby bunny. But the sadness did not last. Too many rabbits for me.
Yesterday, I finally cleaned my spam folder and found the message the hospital sent with information concerning our senior exercise class. I used the excuse of “they didn’t communicate” to miss class last week. This week I told David, “Now you act enthusiastic, so I won’t feel like I’m dragging you someplace you don’t want to go.”
I hate exercise. I’ve always hated it, although I have always done something called exercise. For years, I did 30 situps and 30 leg lifts every morning. I was in tolerable shape until my back doctor told me not to bend like that anymore. The new back doctor says, the old guy was wrong. But too late, perhaps. My abs are baggy these days. And the more weight I lose the saggier they get. Pooh!!
When I get up in the morning and look in the mirror, I frighten myself. Where is Phyllis Diller, when I need her. She made my Mom laugh about the aging process. It ain’t pretty for many of us.