Winter, pause for thought, and a thought on vanity

            It’s a wintry cold day in Fort Worth, the kind of damp cold that chills to the bone, or as old-timers would say, to the marrow. A morning trip to the grocery made me cold for the day. My cottage is cozy, but it has lots of windows, and since it’s an old structure at heart, it’s drafty. I long for a fireplace, but there’s no room for it.

My ego has suffered a terrible blow. A couple of weeks ago, Jacob confided he had asked a certain girl to be his valentine. When I asked what that meant, he shrugged and said he’d probably take her to dinner. I heard no more about it, but Jordan announced the other day that she and Christian would be going out that night, and I would have Jacob for supper. Valentine’s happens to be a Wednesday (and also, in an odd twist, Ash Wednesday). That’s the night my weekly dinner pal Betty and I go to supper, and she said Valentine’s didn’t matter. So I asked Jacob if he’d like to bring said girl to dinner with me and his “Aunt Betty.”

The answer was a definite negative shake of the head. I have to say it was delivered with one of his charming smiles and a sparkle in his eye. But he was clearly appalled at the thought. “Why?” I asked. “Is it because we’re old.” The head shake was affirmative this time, though the grin stayed in place.

I have to admit I was taken back. I don’t think of myself as old, and it . .. well, it hurt my feelings a bit, that he sees that as my defining characteristic. Jordan said he wouldn't even let his parents take them to dinner and is trying to get up some groups event. Still, I’ll have to get his oldest cousin to talk to him. Once last summer she drove over from Frisco to have supper with me, and when I thanked her for coming all this way to see an, old lady, she assured me I’m fun. Maybe when Jacob’s eighteen instead of eleven!

I’ve been thinking about the occupant of the White House and vanity. A friend posted that 45 has done so much bad that people attach anything bad to him, whether it’s his fault or not. I agree, but he bulls through life with such belligerence and such lack of grace that it’s hard to muster any sympathy.

I saw a picture the other day of him boarding his plane. The wind was up, and it played havoc with his hair, exposing the very bald back of his head. I might feel sympathy for another man—or woman—similarly exposed, but all I could think was what crashing vanity compelled him daily to construct that elaborate and unattractive hairdo. Why doesn’t he adjust to baldness, like thousands of others do? Or at least wear a hat.

Thought for the day: The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails. So, folks, adjust your sails and stay warm this wintry weekend. And, Mr. Trump, get a fedora.