things i will (and will not) do when i am an old lady*

(that's assuming I make it that far)

1. I will not have that haircut. You know the one. The one that is pretty much a status symbol with septuagenarian women across the country. It is puffy and wispy and reminds one of a spun gray confection perched atop the head (gross, someone have a go at a better description, please.) I don't care if I have to have a buzz cut, but I refuse it.

2. If a child asks me to play with her, I will not continue to stare mournfully out the window and reply, "As soon as this cloud passes over the house." without ever turning to make eye contact.

3. If I there are ever any children in my house for any reason, I will be absolutely sure to set up the tallest ladder I can find. Underneath that ladder, I will set up a very large and wonderfully springy mattress. Do you have any idea how great it is to jump off a ladder and land on a nice mattress? You could probably do it for hours.

4. I will not judge the location of everything by the nearest K&W Cafeteria, Cracker Barrel, Shoney's, or roadside motel.

5. I probably will drive a Cadillac or an Oldsmobile. I'm sorry. I know that I've disappointed you sorely, but let's face it-- they are pretty much classy. Maybe I'll get an obscene bumper sticker for the back to redeem myself for this.

6. I am not going to be one of those old women who looks like she is 33 because that freaks me out in a very large way. Seriously, kudos for staying healthy and all that, but there is such a thing as aging gracefully. I mean, it really reminds me of Dorian Gray. Weird.

7. I will not allow any plaques, tapestries, paintings, or inspirational posters with angels, cherubs, small rabbits in gardening togs, or small children skipping in a circle holding hands into my house. I would sooner procure a poster that says 'Mary-- Mother of Mexico' with said revered virgin superimposed over the Mexican flag and hang it in the entryway.

*a list gleaned from resolve, experience, and a tiny bit of revulsion.

a necessity

It perched on top of the cabinet that housed our TV and gazed down on the rest of the room. If you had looked at it long enough, it might have begun to seem smug and slightly imperious, like a judge swathed in his somber black robes, surveying his court. It was smug because it knew that I wanted it dearly.

Whether or not you believe that boxes can possess things such attributes is entirely up to you, but I'm telling you that this box did.

The box seemed to have been engineered with the sole purpose of tempting me-- the chipped paint, the smooth curve of the lid, and the ancient-looking hinges-- they all held some undefinable allure. I coveted that box. I knew that coveting was a sin, thanks to various Sunday School teachers and Bible Time every morning in Mrs. Matthews' second grade class, but such a box was so wonderful that God himself probably couldn't help yearning for it. And if God coveted it then surely he wouldn't condemn me for a bit of wanton sin...

It had the most wonderful things inside of it: a ticket stub, various dingy old coins, several pocket knives, various shiny pins shaped like planes and crosses, a pendant commemorating the 75th anniversary of Coca-Cola, and a picture of my cousin Reginald looking for all the world like the sort of kid who got beat up every day during lunch period for his money. It was in short, the best thing ever.

The concept of a box of treasures is pretty much integral to a childhood. Basically, the whole idea here is that it is useless to try and raise a child without one. Absolutely useless. Don't even try it.