Funny thing is that turning 30 wasn’t so bad and 31 we had just bought the house. This year… I think I can actually feel myself getting a touch decrepit. Seriously, my vanity is really starting to gain momentum as the other day I was carefully cataloging and tagging potential gray hairs in my beard for Management to confirm their existence; mind you she insists that they are blond but I know better.
So what is it that is making me feel like I’m past my prime? Work? Life? Chronology? Over active neuroses? Likely all of the above. I certainly feel like I am working hard while getting nowhere and that could be chalked up to the simple fact that we have not had a vacation, one where you go away somewhere for five or more days, since our honeymoon some six years ago. It feels like I’ve passed the point of burnout and am leaving the carbonization phase and will be ready to be used as a fuel source in the near future. At least my utility continues.
Tonight, in celebration of my debatable grayness, we’ll be having a quick and quiet dinner with my in-laws, a long walk with the dog, and then I’ll retire to my over stuffed arm chair to quietly bemoan, “kids these days”. Thread bare robe and thin slippers with knobby knees is optional.
Wait ’til you turn 40, you impertinent whelp! You haven’t even begun to feel time’s cruel fingers gripping at your corpus (I’m told I haven’t either, but that’s debateable, as well).
Besides, my wife tells me that greying hair makes a man look distinguished and (potentially) more handsome and sexy whereas it only makes women look old. At least, that what she tells me…
Ha! Distinguished! Yes, nothing says distinguished like sagging jowls and puttering absent mindedness. And I’m sure you have more sense than to tell your wife that gray makes a woman old! I know that one hell of a cold front would blow in if I even floated
that notion in jest. :-p
FORTY!? James, you said you feel a touch decrepit not FOSSILIZED. Try to truly understand the leaps in antiquity between 32 & 40? No thanks. I believe I’d rather spend a soothing night letting Stephen Hawking’s research on String theory wash over my fragile mind than enter into such lofty cerebral territories of comprehension.
It’s not how many grey hairs you have, only how old you truly are. I don’t mean how old you FEEL. I mean literally, how old you ARE.
You kill me, Bongles. Absolutely.