I am 59 and it is the best year of my life.

In a matter of moments the countdown to 60 begins in earnest.   So,  59, huh?  I try to think of something about my age,  like maybe a race car number of my favorite car or a date that I find cool.


Hurtling towards obscurity I notice new things or more accurately slowing down to see what is there.    More stopping and actually feeling and sensing what is around me.   WordPress is opening my mind more and considering I am from a different generation,  that is something.

But I embrace the photos and the poetry and notice the common threads.   I find that I am not so different and for every misstep,   I am not the only one.

I remember the first thoughts about something different from childhood.  The inexorable flood of emotions and the subsequent stray thoughts into feelings I could not comprehend.  Like the classic nerd I am embraced my nerdiness and found solace in dreams.

One thing that is absolutely true,  is that as we age certain things will never be as they were.  Alliances meant to get us through the torturous teen years become all for about self.   The world becomes dog eat dog and the wisest have a star over them.

Getting aged is hilarious.   Especially anatomically.   Hair grows in new place and trees know your name.   That and your underwear keeps growing and velcro is an alternative to tying shoes.   But do not fear there is always next year as the tide rolls in.   Confused yet?  Me too.

I think too many of us climb the stairs too late,  that radiance becomes transposed and the mortality can wait.    We buy a new car with wide wheels and a pair of rose-colored glasses.  Myself,  I drink Viagra and breathe Cialis.   I wear a bald-headed toupee and do my little strut.     I also realize in those commercials the two in separate bath tubs and I think I know what the problem is.    It is elementary my dear Funk and Wagnalls.   You youngins may go and want to look that up.

I am just waiting for stem cells to make me less ugly.    I already have enough legs but a few active brain cells and a subscription to Sports Illustrated.   (The Swimsuit thingie) and I will be in business.    I do not want to be a Hugh Heffner.   Partly because I do not want to be a caricature of myself or an embarrassment to my daughter.

Imagine the resentment of the girls who sleep with a zombie with a shrinking member.   They may get a credit card but the interest due is beyond reconciling.   I could have liposuction on my brain and that way maybe get rid of some accumulated caloric content.

In my next life I am going to live in a Petri Dish.   However that doesn’t include being a virus or an infection.

Well I got to go to Punxsutawney and upstage my name sake in the critical decision of whether there will be six weeks more of winter or an Indian Spring.