After a week of dreary weather, today was wondrous, bright sunshine, no wind. I wanted to go bicycle riding, but I give up a block from home. My bike’s broken, whether it’s the brakes or gears doesn’t matter. Walking it home, I start crying and I can’t stop.
The most tragic words in life are Too Late.
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•When I had lapband surgery at 54, I feared it was too late to get my life back.
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•When I did get healthy, it was too late to have a child, but not too late to return to teaching.
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•Last summer, it was too late for cosmetic surgery to turn me into a hot babe, but not too late to feel comfortable in my own skin.
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•At 60, if I want to be a ballerina, it’s probably too late.
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•And, today, it’s too late to ride my bicycle.
My parents, step-parents, and grandparents are all gone and I know each of them died with some things undone -- and it’s too late for them.
Too late is tragic because one recognizes what might have been, because one must acknowledge lost opportunity; one must be profoundly self-aware.
