But I Digress

At the risk of losing my fanbase of young adoring women, I have a confession to make.
Next month (at the time of this writing) I will turn sixty-one years old.
I hear the stampede of young women heading for the door now.
Well maybe not a stampede but I hear footsteps.
Ok maybe that’s not footsteps I hear. I think it’s a drip from my leaking faucet.
No matter, I’m more than just an aging face.
I’m an aging body too.
At this age I fit into two categories.
I’m a very young old man and a very old young man.
It depends who is looking at me.
Which usually is not many.
Of course maturity is not part of the equation.
It varies in me from subject to subject.
Whenever there is physical labor involved I pull the age card.
“I’m too old for this! Oh my aching bones!” etc, etc.
Then I go play computer games or watch shows about my old favorite comic book heroes.
When you’re two years old, a year is half your life.
When you’re sixty, assuming you live to be 100, then a year is only 1/60th.
Time seems to speed up.
When you look at me you see contrails and warped space.
Everything seems like it happened yesterday.
Except eating and sleeping.
I always look forward to that.
I was thinking about writing a humorous blog on aging.
Start it while I’m still a young oldie and chronicle my funny experiences with growing old.
I wonder if this has already been overdone.
I am quite sure there are endless articles on the funny life adventures of the youth challenged.
This is the sort of thing people like to read.
Who wants to read continuous horror stories about body parts going out of warranty?
I suppose I could write those kind of stories for “Gloomy Old Fart Weekly”, but I’d rather concentrate on the funny.
I probably could start “Gloomy Old Fart Weekly” and make a fortune.
There seems to be a big market for the depressing.
Naw. I’ll stick to my unintentional depressing writing style instead.
You may notice when I write I sometimes ramble.
That may or may not have anything to do with the fact the I used to ride in my parents Rambler as a boy.
If you remember Ramblers, then how are you doing old timer?
But I digress.
I guess I’m writing this because I wanted to vent.
That happens to me a lot after eating certain foods.
This year I’m not expecting much of a birthday celebration.
Sixty-one is not a milestone like sixty.
Last year we made a life size statue of me from the wax of my birthday cake candles.
This year I expect a wrapped and bowed, shiny box of indifference.
Just like every other year.
But that’s ok.
I shouldn’t expect anyone to make a fuss because I’m not dead yet.
On the other hand when they finally do make the fuss I’ll miss the party.
Oh well, thanks for letting me vent.
You might want to open a window.