Thirteen years after WWII ended, I was born in 1958 in San Francisco and my favorite place was under my father’s study-desk, in the space left for the chair, my lovable fort. I remember when I was three and starting to have a little trouble making it under that desk as I had grown. I remember remembering when I was two and could fit easily into the space , crawling at first, then toddling and walking. Now I had to scrunch my neck and crunch my legs to get underneath, not as fun anymore…growing pains of a four-and-a-half year old… . “It only gets worse” Rod, my teacher from the Ilios program at San Carlos High told me on my way home a few years after graduation. “Really?” I asked. He peered at me, our eyes met. It was one of those (he can’t handle the truth moments) “Naw”.

“No?” I smiled.

“No, just kidding.” He warned.

Smiling broader, I took the medicine delivered. Stop complaining…it only may get worse with age. Cherish the peak experiences and prepare for your tunnel dive under the desk.