One of the things that have begun to bother me here in my fifties is how little I really know. Not at all like when I was younger and knew everything. Believe me, you couldn’t tell me nothing for about forty five years. Just ask 2.
The only good thing now is I know ya’ll don’t know squat either, so I can at least fake it. And what I do know is from decades of watching conventional wisdom and the best laid plans go down the drain
Heck, I don’t even know who the guy in the mirror is anymore. The face I hardly recognize. It’s vaguely mine, although a far older version of what I should look like at my ….youthful….. age.
Not with all the white in the beard and the silver shining on the side. The deep blue eyes that stare back at me out of that face have faded some. In my younger years, most women referred to them as bedroom eyes. They’ve squinted into the sky (and water and bushes and ,,,,,) to the point that the wrinkles around them are permanently etched into what was once a youthful smooth skin. Character lines to be charitable.
Like 2, I’ve always wished for that tough manly leather like skin, instead I got what 2 got- parchment thin and easy to bleed through the scratches I receive. Not that the aspirin and Plavix help. And that’s not a good thing for someone who likes to follow the dogs into the briar patches while chasing bunnies.
It’s funny but I feel just like the old cranks that I used to hear and snicker at who preached “ just you wait….”
Happy fifty fourth birthday to me!
Go ahead and snicker. But just you wait.
Deep breaths, deep breaths