Driving to work today, a random exchange of dialogue between the cast of characters from one of my favorite old sit-coms, “One Day at a Time,” popped into my head.

I loved this show because I wanted to be just like Valerie Bertinelli (aka Barbara Cooper).  She was twice my age at the time—a worldly and sophisticated fifteen.  Looking back, Julie was cooler, rebellious and far more interesting, but she wasn’t pretty. But I digress.

During this particular episode, the girls’ mother, Ann Romano (played by Bonnie Franklin) was lamenting the arrival of her thirty-ninth birthday.

“Oh come, on, Mom,” Valerie reassured her.  “Thirty-nine’s not old.”

“Yes it is,” her poor mom wailed.  “It sounds like I’m forty and lying!”

“Mom, you’re making a big deal out of nothing,” Julie chimed in.  “You’re not even middle-aged yet.  They say the average lifespan of a woman these days is seventy-eight, so you won’t hit the halfway mark until…”  She quickly did the math in her head, then fell silent.

So now, I wallow in misery for three very poignant reasons.

#1:  I am as old as the mother in “One Day at a Time.”

#2.  I am old enough to remember “One Day at a Time.”

#3.  Schneider will most likely never be seen or heard from again.

Wonder if forty will be this traumatic?

Once I started teaching in Simsbury, my worst fear was running into students and their parents at the grocery store.  This weekend, however, I discovered there’s something far worse—running into your hairdresser at the grocery store.

During my entire conversation with Ashley, my young and talented stylist whose efforts go largely to waste after the first shampoo, I thought to myself, I’ve had this feeling before.  I couldn’t place when or where, but I knew I felt like it a million times in the past.

Then I remembered.  It was five times a day between the years 1986 and 1991, at the beginning of each class during homework check.  The look on Ashley’s face was reminiscent of Miss Mead’s as she walked away with her grade book, shaking her head and lamenting how I didn’t apply myself.

I hear it’s never too late to make a New Year’s resolution, so here is my vow: from this day forward, I will never leave my house with a greasy ponytail again.

Me and my “U.J.” (Uncle Joe)

My uncle up and moved to Ohio some years back.  We were in touch once or twice a year, and the miles really distanced him from his family in every way.  He lived alone, but I always assumed he had close friends that kept him company…otherwise, why else would he be living there?

Every Christmas he called us, but this year he didn’t.  He was inconsistent and flighty, and we assumed forgetting to call us was just him being the way he was.  Then we went on with our busy lives.

Yesterday I found out the reason he didn’t call was because he died.  He had a heart attack in his apartment, and no one discovered him until his landlord checked on him two days ago.

For two months, he was gone, and no one even noticed.

I am posting this in hopes that whoever reads this will take a moment to think about each and every person in their family—particular those who live alone and keep to themselves.  If something happened to them, would they be accounted for?  How long would it take for someone to figure out something was wrong?

Never assume that someone who is alone has someone who checks in on them.  That person can be more alone than you ever imagined.

I debated whether to post this cause I don’t mean to bum you all out, but I am looking for any small way to make something constructive out of this tragedy.  My uncle was a good man, and although I sometimes resented him for choosing an isolated life, I loved him very much.  No one deserves that kind of ending.

RIP Uncle Joe…I will never forget about you again.