Tempus Fuckit

I’m trying, as I move deeper into my second half-century, not to turn into an old fogey—right away, anyway. I’m disinclined to give up the enthusiastic and fun-loving attitudes of my youth in favor of a more sober and reserved outlook on life.

On the other hand, I don’t want to be some scary senior citizen pretending to be a teenager, like the cast of Friends in the final few seasons of that show.

So, I’m not too freaked out that many of my opinions on things have changed over the years; in fact, I take it as evidence that I haven’t become totally ossified in my perspective, as incapable of changing as the expression on Joan Rivers’ face.

So, for instance, it’s okay with me that I no longer am as interested in staying up as late as possible as I am in figuring out how to get to bed as early as I can.

Or, I used to get a rush of ego-osterone when someone younger than me zoomed past on his or her bike; now, I only feel that way when someone older than me does.

Back in the day—oh, let’s call it Tuesday—I wanted to make tons and tons of money; now, while I wouldn’t mind winning the lottery, I find it more interesting to be frugal, at least in theory.

For years, I liked nothing better than to hear myself talk; these days, I consider it far superior to hear what others are going on about, and even better if I don’t even have to listen.

I’m not nearly as in to sports as I used to be; of course, that could change if the Mariners get hot or the Steelers repeat their success of 2005.

When I first started doing the blog, I couldn’t believe how constraining it was to only have 327 words to work with; these days, I stretch to use them all up.

At last.