One hundred years...
Eleanor turned one hundred and five last Tuesday.
A journalist from a local newspaper arrived with flowers and a standard question—the same one they ask all centenarians, as if they had a patent for living the right life:
— What is your secret?
Eleanor looked at him over her glasses.
"For the first hundred years, I did everything right," she said. "I ate right. I slept right. I got married right. I was right to keep quiet when I should have shouted. I smiled right when I wanted to cry."
The journalist nodded and wrote down.
“And then?” he asked.
— And then I turned a hundred, and I thought, how much longer can this go on?
She stopped eating things she didn't like. She started speaking her mind. She gave up uncomfortable shoes and boring people. She started going to bed when she wanted and waking up when she wanted. She got a cat—even though she'd always said she didn't like cats. It turns out she does.
"And how?" the journalist asked.
“The last five years,” Eleanor said, “have been the best of my life.”
The journalist was silent. Then he put his pen down.
- Why did you wait a hundred years?
She shrugged.
- Why are you waiting?
