THIS IS 58.

Hey, Judd Apatow, forget about This is 40. 

Think about This is 58.

My husband's best friend has been dead for a month now. Today. One month ago, this man was my husband's best friend, making plans to visit us and now he is dead and his ashes are sitting in an urn somewhere. We're not sure where. We're not sure why.

He wasn't sick. He shouldn't have died. He wasn't addicted to drugs. He wasn't a drunk. He wasn't in a car crash. We're stunned and numb.

This is 58. 

We watch the national news. We are bombarded with commercials warning us about our impending death. Heart disease, diabetes. Foreboding commercials for crash-proof retirement. 

We cannot afford to think about retirement yet. Divorce and remarriage and college debt for our kids screwed that up for us.

This is 58. 

Our backs hurt for no reason. 

Sex isn't everything. It helps, but it ain't everything.


We think our grandson is amazingly beautiful. 
He is the most adorable baby, ever. 

This is 58.

We watch The Dodo on YouTube. Alot.

We are so sick of all the sickos running around our planet.


We like Ray Donovan and The Kominsky Method and Tiger Woods and Bob's Burgers and Netflix and sports and sports and sports.

We did not vote for the current president. 

We miss the 80s. 

We see we what we don't have and we see what we want. We have to hustle to keep up. 

But we don't feel like doing anything. We just want to hit the lottery and pay off all our debt and move and be free.

This is 58. 


Love, 

Maria.