This was an interesting week, highlighted by sporadic blue notes of humiliation and glorious crescendos of joy. In other words, a typical song in the life of a middle-aged women.First came a serious visit to City Hall with my son-in-law to finalize some business documents. Of course, I wanted to appear serious and intelligent, but as I stepped from the car I noticed I was wearing my “chicken slippers,” a delightful pair of comfortable slippers with a perky chicken on the left foot and a cracked egg with a peeking chick on the right foot. I wear these slippers around the house because I am a recovering high-heeled-shoe addict with the bunions to prove it. In my haste to get to the meeting, I had completely forgotten to change my shoes. Was it a silent but sassy protest of city government bureaucracy? Probably not. Was it old age confusion? Perhaps.Another moment that ignited the wounded warrier within my aging soul happened on Saturday when I eagerly went to the Boise Philharmonic to experience the world premier of An Idaho Symphony. My perky mood turned as dark as the surrounding black-clothed patrons when the insensitive spawn-of-the-devil ticket taker asked if I wanted the senior citizen discount. Even though it was cheaper, I couldn’t accept the erroneous assumption that I was six years older. I stumbled to my seat and sat in total dispair until the orchestra turned my gloom to glee with a breathtaking rendition of Igor Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. Then the symphony to Idaho restored my elation as it captured the mood and magnificence of the state.My attitude greatly improved last night and I was reminded of one of the pure joys of living past five decades. I rocked and sang my year-old granddaughter to sleep and stared in amazement as she slept in my arms. At that moment, nothing else mattered and life was good.