Don’t worry, my friends. When I muse upon anything, it’s not expected to change the world. Nor change my mind. Least of all, change me.

Though I can’t guarantee any of that. Most of the changes, of course, are fairly insignificant since most of my musings are mighty silly. Whether the changes are for the better or worse, given my goofiness, time and my critics will undoubtedly tell.

What’s on my tiny mind today? Tiny thoughts.

Like: If policy-makers are serious when they say we should reduce waste, then why are the bags for collecting rubbish and taking it to be heaped in the landfill mostly touted by manufacturers as being more desirable because they’re nearly indestructible? And as a corollary question, how many policy-makers can fit into one of those indestructo-bags? Oops, I said that out loud, didn’t I. Just one of life’s little conundrums.

Should that be ‘conundra’? Conundrae? I had to look it up and absolutely hooted with joy when I saw the responses to a Guardian (Thank You, British linguistic pugilists! Thank you!) inquiry on the topic. Yet more delightful musings spring forth from the very thought of these brainiacs tussling humorously over the proper plural, whether there is one, and whether anyone ought to give a fig about it.

I also muse on things like: If I always dreaded and hated pressing clothes at laundry time, so much so that I got rid of the requisite appliance many years ago, yet I am now slightly obsessive about folding clothes so that they seem, possibly, neatly pressed…is that ironic? I would be hard pressed to say.

Like: If “Youth is wasted on the young,” why do the people who say so think that by recapturing the privileges and advantages of youth, they would remain mature enough to give the lie to their assertion? I guess they’re too busy being self-congratulatory on having a George Bernard Shaw quotation up their sleeves to consider any other delusions. Unless they’re too busy checking to see whether Shaw was restating (“Youth is a wonderful thing. What a crime to waste it on children.”) Oscar Wilde—and who wouldn’t? Wilde was the bonniest of mot-smiths.

All I can think in response to it, in fact, is: Why leave it to young people to act like children anyhow? It’s only in my latter years that I have gained a deeper appreciation for my natural talent and efforts combining to keep me so wonderfully immature.

With that, I will say that it’s probably past my bedtime (one of the catalysts for my current state of fuzzy thinking, perhaps, but surely not the only one), and whether that’s because I’m such a child or because I’m such an old lady is kind of irrelevant, isn’t it. Good night, then, and may all of your dreams come true. As long as they’re full of Wilde brilliance.

Photo: Deep Thoughts

Ta-ta, toodle-oo, and a good nighty-night to you all!



15 thoughts on “Musings

    • We should all be so blessed, eh! You have your own version, though, and I respectfully submit that if you were another Wilde, you’d be less interesting than in being your own superb writer. 🙂

  1. Haha! Wonderful post! I have these musings too, on a regular basis! My husband can often be heard saying to me, “How old are you, 6?” I love that!! 😄. You have made me laugh out loud Kathryn, thank you! 😄😄😄 xx

  2. I absolutely love this post!! I am an eternal child at 60! I finally feel comfortable in my skin and am not afraid to be who and what I am, a rather silly person and loving it. I have the best time with my grandchildren and fit right in! I love your thought process, sounds so familiar!! much love and peace to you!! soul sister!! Michelle

  3. What a scream, Kathryn! I loved the thought of putting policy-makers in the indestructible bags. Tom and I have an imaginary wood-chipper (that we stole from Fargo) for all those people, and we feed that wood-chipper frequently (“there’s one for the chipper….”).

    You could be writing for John Oliver in between your other pursuits:0).

    • Gosh, if I were rich enough, I’d hire Oliver to write for *me* and take all the credit! Laziness always wins, as you know, in my playground. 😀

      Our version of the Chipper, when my sisters and I were young, was the Zipper! As in, that horrific spinning, whipping, whirling monster machine thingy at the state fair, in which we always fantasized putting anyone of whom we didn’t approve—usually because they were so cool that we got inferiority complexes from merely thinking of them—and of course, the implied addendum was “and leave the door open!” It still gives me a tiny frisson of gladness just picturing any such overly-perfect creature being catapulted into the stratosphere and hearing their plaintive cries for help as they disappeared from sight forever…. 😉

      • That did me good:0)) We live near an old-fashioned amusement park and can send people to the Zipper as well (thanks for the idea:0))). I shudder to think how I’d manage mean people without Chippers and Zippers.

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