My new best friend, the 80 year-old autodidact sage, Maroca (IIRC), counseled me that I am aging prematurely, as evidenced by my full head of gray hair.
I appreciate the concern, but I’m gonna push back a bit; as far as I can tell, at age 63, I’m aging right on schedule. Granted, he’s got 17 years of experience on me and if I’m still hale enough in a couple decades to hang out with squid-jiggers on seaside dock to give unsolicited, albeit reasonable, advice to strangers, I’ll count it as a success.
Still, it’s not all about quantity in my mind. I can’t say that I’ll be satisfied with merely existing into my ninth decade if I’m not able to still ride my bike around at night to city parks in order to get asked impolitely to leave by angry dudes complaining that my friends and I are keeping his 83 year-old mom awake, even though it’s only 9:00 in the evening.
That’s the kind of fun that makes life worth living, right?
“When your heart's on fire…smoke gets in your eyes,” sang the Platters and they could have been talking about Seattle’s air quality of late, overlooking the part about it getting in your lungs, as well; surprisingly, the only thing that took my breath away was the fingers of lights extending into the void at the edge of the world; even if I hadn’t already been tripping the light fantastic, it would have been a sight worthy of a second look; as it was, aided by visual aids, I got to be mesmerized over and over with each shared observation.
These days, you take joy wherever you find it, and if that turns out to be a parking lot just outside a closed beach, so be it. Who knows how many more chances you’ll have to do anything anywhere in the coming years; the older you get, the younger you should act; right Maroca?
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