I’ve come to the decision that 54 is an “awkward age.” Looking back, it’s sort of like those goofy early teen years where you yearned to be older but still wanted to hold onto the fun of childhood.
Fifty-four, I’ve concluded, is a lot like that, too.
Like clockwork, my phone rings after every Vikings game. And if I were a betting woman, I’d bet my life’s savings that that I could tell you who’s calling: My mom.
It was an honest typo. One we try our best not to make, because a single letter can change the flavor of an entire sentence, thought, or worse yet, an entire word.
I was a “kidpreneuer” ahead of my time. While we didn’t have the fancy name to define just what we were doing back then, my long-time friend of 51 years, Trish, and I were always trying to scrounge up a nickel or two. And we surely weren’t timid about “working for a living”
