I worry our friendship is in peril.
We are on the phone making plans for me to visit her new apartment 20 miles away from my place.
"I'll pick you up at the train station," she says, as enthusiastic as a sweetheart welcoming her GI home from military service.
But I have the opposite sentiment when I here those words: trepidation and guilt.
"Um, no," I say, I'll get a ride door to door."
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never afraid when I walk Doris at 6 o'clock in the morning.
Not counting the pup parents, who are typically pajama-clad young 'uns rushing their poodle mixes out the door, we are alone taking our first walk of the day.
Doris' nose is to the ground, tracing the scent of other breeds, while I applaud the rising sun that is making its grand entrance in the east.
My 3-year-old shelter dog prefers this time of the day; it is noiseless, and her tail -- typically pasted to her rear -- is high and freely waving. And although we are hardly an intimidating pair -- a tiny, 82-year-old owner and her under 30-pound pooch -- we each believe the other can battle any ne'er-do-well that might cross our path at this hushed hour.
Read MoreI have a short attention span. Despite this flaw, since 2019, using my unorthodox technique, I have read more than 50 books, three at a time, and most in the category of Discrimination and Racism.
I recognize that by teaching you my strategy, I likely incur the displeasure of authors, but the glee of publishers.
The system is simple, but possibly noxious to serious readers: I use a timer and set it for 10 minutes. I open a book in my digital pile and when my iWatch, iPhone, or homey kitchen timer dings its particular alert, I bookmark the page and move on to another.
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After adjusting the straps, I pull my newest purse over my head and position it in the cross body position. My right hand strokes the bag; it is effortless to reach cellphone, keys, or dog treats.
Like a runway model, I slouch and check myself in the full-length mirror. With satisfaction similar to a Tinder match, I announce to my image, "This is the one."
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This morning I heard the toaster pop out my English Muffin half, but when I returned to pluck it out, there was no muffin to be found.
Where could it have gone? Was it possible for it to make an Olympic-size leap and land somewhere on my kitchen floor? Peering around the pretend tiles, I saw bits of lettuce, a few dog treats, crumpled plastic wrap that had escaped bowls they were supposed to be protecting, but no regal English Muffin.
Down on my knees, I peered into the gap between the counter that held the toaster and its neighboring GE refrigerator, and sure enough, the toasted half muffin, which I imagined thumbing its crumbs at me, was lounging in the space.
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