I’m at the age where I read the obituaries. Not proud of it, but I’ll own it. As long as I’m confessing, I’ll add that I also make up mental drafts of my obit. Currently I’m using forced slog as the descriptor for my engagement with incurable (but treatable) blood cancer. It’s a word and ego thing. I don’t want to be stuck with the “courageous battle” default.
To get to forced slog I went through dialogue and then, following diplomatic tradition, proceeded to heated discussion, skipped frank exchange of views and changed frames of reference to settle for a while on forced march. But march eventually seemed to suggest a different pace than I had, thus forced slog. I liked the mire nuance, and besides, having worked outside as a laborer, I really hate mud.
I do not think dance will ever describe whatever it is that I’m doing. Way too joyful.
Jim Weddell 