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Late Bloomer

As told to Leah Gebber

I waited for it. I turned 40, but it didn’t come. Late bloomer, I told myself. Never fear. The time would come. I was almost looking forward to the crisis that must be imminent.

Monday, October 12, 2015

For surely, one of these days, my boss would turn around and say, “Your services as a bookkeeper have served us well for the last two decades, but now robots are taking over your job.” And then I’d mope around the house for two weeks in my old slippers (better dig them out — assuming I hadn’t thrown them away; I don’t tend to keep things like old slippers), until deciding to become a reflexologist. Or someone would make a comment about how my brownies are the moistest in town and I would throw up my hands and say, that’s it. No more brownies. Not now. Not ever. For is a moist brownie the sum achievement of my 20-plus years in the kitchen? Brownies?! And I would embark on a diet consisting of banana-carrot-kale smoothies and serve my family raw food from then on. Or I would decide to lose 40 pounds. Or I would apply for a license to drive a truck. Or I would go hot-air ballooning. Learn to ride a horse. I would walk around telling my friends: When’s the last time you did something for the first time? And I would get to do all this stuff just because I had turned 40. I couldn’t wait. 

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