I had the coolest conversation with Landlady a week ago.
You know, I’m getting to a certain age. I feel it in my joints. Yeah, I know I’m not all that old, 60 is the new 50 and all that. But there’s another cliche: It ain’t the years, it’s the mileage. And brethren and sistren, I got a lot. Also collision damage. And let’s not forget the glaucoma that’ll make me blind at some point, because I never do.
And Landlady said something to the effect that it might be best for a guy like me to die earlier rather than later. I mean she wasn’t suggesting I keel over in the next month or two – I think she wasn’t – just that it would be best to live while you can happily live and then die, rather than spend a decade or two drooling in a wheelchair just to make numbers. I did not disagree.
The conversation started a very interesting line of reasoning, really. I went from young strong witless led-by-his-cock asshole straight to broken pussywhipped middle-aged asshole almost without noticing the transition. It was really quite unpleasant, as I think back on it. The change to throw-it-to-the-wind-and-see-what-happens half-old celibate asshole was more difficult. But not only did I survive it, I almost accidentally became the thing that young me thought he wanted to be.
And I’ve been that new/old thing for almost exactly 14 years, and it has brought me happiness. Seriously, I never expected or even asked for happiness. I only asked for quiet.
If I could have my quiet life forever, I’d do that. But we don’t get forever. And I was thinking thoughts along those lines when I saw the coolest thing…