April 28, 2003
how "old" is old?
That all depends on what "is" is. If I offended sweet miss indigo by bitching about Father Time, I sincerely apologize. Ma'am, you are older than my decrepit ass is and you seem perfectly content to be a fossil just because you have senority on me (yeah, I know we are BOTH WAY BEYOND the average age of most bloggers).
But I ask you a favor, as a Southern Gentleman to a Southern lady:
WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP BRAGGING ABOUT THE VIRTUES OF OLD AGE!!?? THERE ISN'T A GODDAM ONE I'VE FOUND YET THAT I WOULD SWAP MY YOUTH FOR!!!
If you want to argue about boiled peanuts, I'll go there with you. If you want to argue politics or the war in Iraq, I'll go THERE with you, too.
But old is old, Indigo, and when we start arguing matters of DEGREE we sound like the kind of senile, diaper-wearing coots that the caretakers watch carefully around the domino table in the "Shady Rest Place Where You Go To Die." I don't want to go there. Hell, I don't want to be where I am NOW.
I have a head full of gray hair (at least I still have my hair) and lots of scars on my body. My skin isn't as tight as it once was, and the "laugh lines" around my eyes that once made me attractive to women now are full-blown wrinkles. I am known as "The Old Fart" by many of the young Turks at work today.
Got a problem? Go ask "The Old Fart" what to do.
I liked being a young Turk better than I like being an Old Fart, even if I am better at being an Old fart now.
I don't like growing old, and I will rale against the fading of the light until that light goes out. But I'm convinced that I'm fighting a hopeless battle, all by myself. I believe that I've met an enemy who will kill me in the end. That enemy has struck some pretty impressive blows already, and I am unable to respond in kind.
I don't see a damned thing good about it, and you don't need to rub it in.
All content © Rob Smith