Ever since my stroke, a little over four years ago, I have voluntarily limited my intake of eggs to four per week, two each on Thursdays and Sundays. Today, being Sunday, is Egg Day! I know it sounds silly, but I really look forward to those two occasions each week. Not only do I have 2OM (two egss over medium), but I surround them with a rasher of bacon and a heaping mound of fresh-made potatoes, either home fries or hash browns, depending upon my preference that day.
The important thing about this little ritual is not the eggs themselves, but the ritual. As we age, it is only natural that our activities decrease, and our interaction with real live people diminishes. We don’t plan for it to happen; it just does. My personal predicament became even more pronounced about seven months ago when we moved into a community that is still under construction. Without a job to go to, or any new friends to hang out with, my two weekly Egg Days have become focal points in my septuagenarian life.
What I am trying to say is that we all need something in our lives to look forward to, to anticipate, to be grateful for. For some, it might just be a good book that demands to be read, or a round of golf played on a brand new course. In my case, it all boils down to a couple of egg whites and a pair of yellow yolks staring back at me from a plate. I don’t mean to sound maudlin, I can assure you. It is what it is. I know that once spring arrives, and the new pool in our townhouse community opens for business, my circle of acquaintances will broaden considerably. Then, who knows, maybe my special days will become just ordinary days again, with no particular significance whatsoever.
But until all that happens, I will look forward to each and every Thursday and Sunday. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have some cooking—and eating—to do. Whoopee! It’s Egg Day!
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