Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where people age but deities don't! The most ancient Goddess still doesn't need foundation and pressed powder to make herself look good. And that's the way of it.
In November of 1988, after feeling inexplicably nauseous for several weeks, I discovered I was expecting a baby. I remember driving to the beach, walking along the surf, so depressed, thinking, "Well, there goes my life. Now all I'll be is a servant to someone else."
That "someone else," also known in these pages as my daughter The Heir, just got a letter of acceptance from a college.
The letter arrived while The Heir was cavorting in Manhattan's East Village with her young auntie, who's an executive at Viacom.
Readers, I suck magnificently when it comes to drawing first impressions. But never did I stray so far from reality than that day on the beach when I predicted that having a baby would ruin my life. I created my own best friend, and now that she's about to fly the coop I can't imagine being without her.
Moral of this sermon: Spending the day at the beach is overrated.
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS