My mother affectionately called me her “Wednesday’s child,” which lent a subtle informing to my young self that because I’d been born on that fateful day my woeful and dark perspective of life was to be expected. It never occurred to me that one could, like the Monty Python song, “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.”
Imagine my surprise when, during the writing of my memoir, I discovered my mother’s poor recall! Instead of fulfilling a legacy “full of woe,” I was really a Friday’s child–born to a life “full of loving and giving.” To think that I could have been embracing Eric Idle’s tune all these years, smiling and laughing and slugging down a half-full pint of life. Was it too late after all this time to rid myself of a half-empty attitude and roll back the cynicism acquired after decades living as a hardcore New Yorker?
I’d exchanged it all for a relaxed, beachside Florida lifestyle four years ago where, frankly, with miles of white sand and blue ocean and tropical breezes, it’s difficult to be anything but happy.
I was on track to delete my hard-wired world view until the Voldemort of viruses descended on the sunshine state, pitting wizard against muggle (you decide who’s who) in a struggle over fact and fiction.
Until that plays out, with each side attempting to discount the other, I’ve decided to maintain my status quo. Full of woe, I awake, dress, and reluctantly hop on my beach bike and peddle in the dark to catch the morning sunrise.