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Yesterday was my birthday. I woke up in Grand Marais, Michigan, on the shore of incredibly beautiful Lake Superior and made those little cinnamon rolls that come out of a tube. It’s fancy living up there, you know.

Then we embarked on the six hour drive back to Milwaukee, planning our trip so we could hit the pasty drive-thru in Menomonee. More fancy living on the road.

All the while we were driving along U.S. 2 and then down 41 to 43 and into Milwaukee, I thought about this essay, “You’re Asking the Wrong Question,” and how much it puts in one place, first the great fear we have of aging, then our shared ambivalence, and last, if we are lucky, our acceptance and delight in aging.

I think I have reached that last, fine stage. I’m happy here being old. I never thought that could happen.

I asked my husband last night what he thought if I quit working and became a poet. “You should do that,” he said right away. Then turned around a few minutes later and said, “Do you think you might make a little more money than you do blogging?” He laughed. I laughed.

Money isn’t everything.

Anyway, I bring you “You’re Asking the Wrong Question.” And it’s free.