And so I said. . .

Picture me on the train this morning. As you know, I'm nursing a sore throat, minding my own business, surreptitiously eyeing any potentially empty seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone I used to know. So, being the ever-gregarious Todd, I tapped him on the arm and said. . . wait for it. . . . "I haven't seen you in a month of Sundays."

My god! Did I turn 80 last night? A month of Sundays?! Yes, it's true that I grew up hearing this phrase, but I haven't personally used it in many many years. Actually, I can't remember using it in the past decade. Why today? What Proust-inspired remembrance of past things dredged this up from the seabed of my unconscious?

Alas. It's not like it really matters. I hadn't seen him in ages, was never really close, and probably won't see him any time soon. I fear, however, for my internal lexicon of catchphrases. What's next?

"I feel as old as Methuselah?"

"If the Lord's willin' and the creek don't rise. . . "

"So I told him I said. . . "

Oh, the possibilities are endlessly varied and all amusing. Pity me.