Turning 58 (on the 13th) seems to be proof that I am not demonstratively bothered by my advanced age. At 58 you can no longer legitimately round down to "mid-fifties". You are now officially "pushing 60". And yet, I feel no particular crisis is upon me beyond that ongoing steady drop in enthusiasm for familiar activities that has been a persistent in my psyche for the last 10 years or so, and which I have written off as either the natural aging process or a growing sense of familiarity with, and therefore a certain contempt for, the ways of the world.
Accompanying this is also a growing resignation to myself and my limitations. My running pace, like my writing pace, seems to steadily dwindle. I like to take naps more than ever. I no longer delude myself that I can catch the eye of a young woman (it would be more easy to convince her I'm rich). But I am alert as ever and still fairly quick-witted. And healthy for the most part. I'm also good on the most important thing in life: maintaining a strong sense of absurdity, especially your own.
[TV] Toob Notes: Quick Takes
[Movies] Flick Check: Franchise Fodder
[Travel] Austin, Not So Weird
[Rant] Dave the Builder
