So This is How To Keep Young?...

One of the perks of moving to a "young" city like Boston is the optimistic hope that its youth will somehow rub off. Well, not so much youth, but at least its energy.

Last night Boston's own mighty New England Patriots, led by their Gaelic warrior prince Tom Brady, trounced the otherwise svelte Colts in the AFC championship football game. I mention this because my Boston apartment faces Tom Brady's.

I am, at best, an erstwhile football viewer -- captivated only by the fans' hoopla -- so living across from Mr. and his-even-more-famous Mrs. Brady was not a great thrill...that is, until someone who was thrilled that I lived across the street from the famous couple's city apartment told me that Brady is considered 'old' in football years.

That same someone told me that Brady and his model wife are on a mission to "preserve" their youth with diet and exercise. Not surprising considering their bodies are literally their fortune.

Just in case you wondered, Brady is 37. His-even-more-famous Mrs. Brady is 34...or at least that's what Google says, and who am I to argue?

In comparison, the opposing Colt quarterback, Andrew Luck, is a whole 25-years-old -- my middle daughter's age.  Just think, this kid has only had a drivers license for 7 whole years, and there he is leading men into 'war'.

For the record, 25 is indeed 'young', and 37 is in no way 'old'.

But in sports and model-world anything over the second decade of life is freaking ancient!

So I watched the game, intent on witnessing an epic battle of age versus, well, youth.

I confess I also watched hoping to catch a glimpse of human frailty -- perhaps a limping Brady, arthritis knee acting up...nothing too serious, just a little something that betrayed his aging bones.

The hoped-for limp would provide me with proof that Mr. and Mrs. Brady are wrong and one cannot stop time. I would then be perfectly justified to be my 50-something-self, sitting quietly on a couch watching football with my husband, washing down pizza with Cabernet.

But I don't know whether I really wanted to see Brady fail or not.

Had his 37-year-old body crumpled and limped off the field while I refilled my wine glass, I think I would have felt hopelessness. Not 'hopeless', but 'hopelessness' - the knowledge that nothing I could ever do would help stave off the ravages of time.

But, hallelujah, Brady didn't limp but rather pranced, gallivanted, and galloped his way to a resounding win.

I feel sorry for the young man Andrew Luck, but not too sorry -- he's got at least 12 years to catch up with Brady and his 6 Superbowls.

And as for Brady, he's going to have to muster whatever strength his exercise and diet plan can manage when he faces the Seattle Seahawks on February 1st.  That day he will be facing a slightly older opponent, the 26-year-old Russell Wilson.

And me?

Well, Brady's win made me hopeful for all us 'oldsters.

So on February 1st you can find me once again sitting on my couch, watching football with my husband, washing down that pizza with some good Cabernet - ever hopeful.

So This is How To Be Bored...

As tends to happen, January brings boredom to even the most enthusiastic.
Blame the holiday hype...  Blame the eggnog...  Blame the disappointment of bad gifts... 
Just don't blame yourself.
There is something sad about our self-imposed busy holiday season. It's as if we are trying to ward off the January doldrums by expending as much energy as possible before the year ends.
I think us middle aged people have earned our boredom. Wait until you've experienced (and can still remember) 50+ years of holidays come-and-go.  There's remarkably very little that can surprise us or keep our attention.
This December I walked Fifth Avenue and 60th Street three separate times, but not once did I bother to glance at the famous tree or even look at the expensive shop windows. 
I know: that IS sad! 
But in my defense, had those I was walking with even hinted at wanting to experience what many consider the quintessential American holiday display, I would have gone along.  But no one did, so neither did I.
Does getting older mean you no longer get excited?  Is boredom what I have to look forward to from now on?
Boredom is defined as "the state of being weary and restless through lack of interest" (I looked it up  in the Merriam-Webster dictionary just to make sure that was what I was feeling). 
I can relate to the "restless" part, but, gosh, I'm fighting off the "being weary" - it sounds so defeated.

Yawn. Pardon me, I'm boring even myself today...