The Year of...

The year of growing older. Don't know what that means, but I woke up with the phrase hovering about my consciousness. Couldn't put it aside or leave it alone, so took a long walk with Gus to see if I couldn't devise a follow up thought or at least a run up to the phrase. Got nothing. I mean, all years are years of growing older, aren't they? Why should this one be singled out?

I blame Bush.

Or it could be the gallbladder. Gallbladders, prostates, colons, these are old people words. Ever hear a thirty something toss them about in conversation? Nah, to them the only body part that matters is the heart. Well, that and those persistent sexual parts, they get a lot of attention as well. So does this mean that now that I am thirty something twice over I have to be old? Because, I'm telling you right now, that's not going to happen. Sure my entire face from 1976 can now be located in the folds of my neck and when I talk about my 100 yard dash I'm talking about a really long puctuation mark, but that doesn't mean I'm getting old. Old is when you do old stuff like stoop and knit and have a nice cup of tea and talk about the weather and days gone by. Old is when you no longer care about next season's team. Old is...not for me.

Although I do like a good nap. And sometimes I wish I could hit the ball a little further and run a lap or two around the track, but not very often and not for very long. There are just too many other good things to do instead. So...

The year of growing older. I still don't know what it means.