Mood

Alda had lived a great while and was poised to live a great while longer; at times, she was uncomfortable with it, wondering what to do as the others rolled off and she didn't. Whatever would they say as the decades wore on and on and there she (still) was? This round, the hard think took almost 72 hours stationary in a chair (the one Martha Washington had given her upon George's death) before she arrived at a mental crossroads: treasured and wise immortal or monster in the mortality maze? "Why am I trying to drill this (and me) down to one understandable thing?" Alda asked herself eventually, annoyed. "Everyone else gets to waffle about, evolving or not; why do I have to define myself for the benefit of the perpetually perplexed and inarguably tedious (most of the human race)? Oooo ... I'm wordy today ..." She smiled, got up, and made herself a cup of tea. She liked herself in a mood; moods were better than quandaries. Ultimately, Alda decided to let herself play all of her parts (it made the most sense to not fight them) and the trick was to enjoy each one fully.