“You know what they say. Go big or go home,” Kim, the optician at Camino Eye Care, told me. “Be bold. It’ll make you look younger.” 

Kim is about my age, but doesn't look it, so I said, “Okay.” 
​
Here’s the result: 

​I’ve spent years picking out frames based on how well they disappeared on my face. So this is big step. Almost as big as these glasses. 
​
Every time I look in the mirror, for just a moment I think of the kid from The Sandlot. 

Yikes.

​When Kim said I'd look younger, this isn't quite what I had in mind. 

When Star Wars was released in 1977, I was fifteen. 

[Okay, it seems kind of silly to include a link, because if you aren't familiar with Star Wars, you must have spent your entire life in a cave. On Pluto. But, hey, you never know who's reading your blog, right?]

​I remember going to see it with my dad and my sister. The only specific thing I remember about that initial viewing, beyond the sheer joy of it, was my father muttering, “What the hell?” when the first Bantha appeared on the screen. 

I don’t think he was that impressed, but my dad’s so low key I’m not sure you could tell. The only thing my dad visibly geeks out about is Frank Sinatra. If Frank Sinatra had been in Star Wars, it might have had more of an impact on him. 

But if you were a kid during the summer of 1977, Star Wars was a big, big deal.

At fifteen, I had a raging crush on Mark Hamill. Frankly, I didn’t get the whole Harrison Ford thing.

Until the 20th anniversary special edition release, when I was thirty-five.

At thirty-five, I totally got the Harrison Ford thing. 

I remember thinking at the time that if they released it again in twenty more years, I’d think Alec Guinness was the hot one. Twenty years, after that, I figured I’d be attracted to Yoda. 

So, now eighteen years later, Luke and Han are back. Only they’ve aged too. 

Mark Hamill is shaggy and graying. "Grizzled" is how I saw him described in an article about The Force Awakens premiere.

Seeing him in the contraband photos smuggled from the set that show him with the shaggy beard and the Obi-wan-esque robes was like seeing an old boyfriend at a high school reunion. 

“Hi, wow, good to see you. Um . . . so what are you doing these days?” Besides getting old, you think, feeling snarky and superior.

Until you look in a mirror. Oh. Right. Damn.

But he looks really cheerful.  So much happier than he appeared in Return of the Jedi, when was staring down the barrel of spending the rest of his career trying to escape Luke Skywalker. 

Harrison Ford looks like he’s about to start yelling at the stormtroopers to get off his lawn. Not because he doesn’t want to be there, but because he’s . . . gasp . . . old. 

Well, older than me, at least. Which is all that really matters. 

I'm having the damnedest time trying to come up with posts that don't sound like stuffy legal essays or cheerleading for self-publishing. I keep seeing advice that an author's blog should not focus on writing and publishing. But what else am I going to write about? French cooking? Ballroom dancing? This is what I do. This is what I know. 

The primary thing, other than writing and publishing, taking up my time and thoughts right now is caring for a person whose privacy I have no right or intent to trample. There's much to write about there, but it's all off limits. I'm old enough to not get our culture's current penchant with oversharing. My friends don't need to see what I'm reading or what shows I'm watching or my GPS location. 

When blogging first developed I remember telling a friend that it was like walking out to the mailbox in your pajamas. Just because you can do it doesn't necessarily mean it's a good idea.  Most likely the neighbors won't be scandalized by your ratty flannel jammies, but is that really something you want them to see?  Do you really want them to know that about you?

In today's world, apparently, the answer is yes. Don't just walk to the mailbox in those faded, baggy jimjams. Take a selfie! Post it on Pinterest and Facebook! Tweet it to your followers!

Well . . . um . . . No.  And you damn kids can get off my lawn while you're at it. And suddenly I feel very, very old. 

So, I'll just tag this post as “old lady ranting” and go do something more productive with my day. Like finishing the laundry. Oh, the glamour of the writing life . . .