Friends (both of you) readers and random fools, I have lied to you for years. See, when I started blogging I was just past the end of a long-term relationship. After fourteen years, I got dumped, and under terms that made it clear I'd been played for at least half of that time, providing food and shelter and 500 channels of TV while being cheated on. Somebody else got the romantic candlelight dinners while I did my (admittedly inept) job of homemaking.
I wanted those years back. So I took them. I listed my age as "40." That was a lie. I was 50 then. I'll be 56 this Spring.* I should not have done it but it was a more-or-less white lie and back then, I could pull it off. A hard-used 40 or a lucky 50, there's not much difference. Time marches on, alas, and any more, there's a big difference in the morning waking up and there's a big difference when I come home after work. I'm worn out. I'm creaky. It's the slow start of the Big Downhill.
These days, I'm cranky. My hearing is starting to go (can't pick voices out of the noise) and my patience is done gone. You get what you get. If you don't like that, there's plenty more elsewhere.
* This is something of a mystery to me, as I could have sworn I was 29 or 30 just last week and in my best moods and condition, I still feel that age. Ooooo, the universal tragederification of it all.
1 week ago