I use to joke with my friends about old people. I would tell them to avoid old people because old age was contagious. I had a whole spiel about how the only people who got old were those that had come in contact with old people. "Stay away from your parents," I would warn, "and for god's sake, don't even consider talking to your grandparents!" That was close to forty years ago. Perhaps I stumbled onto a truth without realizing it. The old man in the mirror tells me I should have took my own advice.
I do not appreciate aging. Why does my body grow old and not my mind? Inside my head I am still the sassy brat of yesteryear. I would love to party all night, but my body refuses to go past ten p.m.. I yearn to jump out of bed in the morning eager to start another day, yet when the morning comes the only reason I get out of bed is use the toilet. It seems to take longer and longer to motivate myself. I have spent entire weekends in my pajamas. In my youth I wouldn't waste an hour of the weekend on sleep.
I exaggerate only slightly. I still have my moments, but those moments seem to happen less and less often. To quote the old country song: "Poor, poor, pitiful me."
That's not entirely true. I called it a country song because it was made famous by Linda Ronstadt. The song was written by Warren Zevon, the English bloke who sang "Werewolves of London." He wrote that one too. He's dead nowadays. But before he died he wrote "Lawyers, Guns and Money" and "Excitable Boy" and a trunk-load of other songs. The ones I mentioned are the most famous. If you don't know them, then Warren wasted his time.
And I apparently am wasting your time also. Nothing of note in this post. At least I'm running true to my course. Give me a minute and maybe I can come up with something humorous.
Okay, here's a blast from the past. When Groucho Marx was alive and Lawrence of Arabia was just released, Groucho remarked "The ladies will love this Peter O'Toole fellow. He's got a double phallic name."