Y’know…being old is kinda fun.
I don’t have to dress ‘cute’ or ‘cool’ any more. I can wear baggy jeans and a wrinkled shirt and call it dressed up.
I can go to the grocery store in sweat pants, T-shirt, and slippers…and no one cares.
And I can fart whenever I please. Especially while walking down the aisles in the grocery… they call that the ‘walking toots’—I call it multi-tasking.
When I get to the end of the aisle, I turn around and see all the people laying on the floor gasping for air. Now that’s fun!!
And then there’s the challenges…
“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” **Laozi ** So is falling down!!
Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in getting up every time we do…Confusius
It takes me a little longer to adjust to new things, though. I gave up whiskey for Lent, and this Vodka is killing me!!
And just because one is growing older, one does not need to grow up. I can do things you so-called ‘mature’ young people can’t do. I can stare at cleavage and be thought of as a ‘dirty old man’—you’d get slapped.
And I can have a cat. I’ve always liked cats—they’re so cute and cuddly, and they purr.
So relaxing.
And I admire their independence. They can’t be herded, they don’t take commands, and most of all, they’re the self-cleaning model.
Dogs. When you call your dog, this big old clumsy thing comes bounding toward you with its tongue hanging out, slobbering, spitting, drooling all over the place. And piles its 85 pounds into your lap knocking the wind right out of you!
Then comes 3:00 in the morning—that’s when you get up and take the hound outside and watch him pee. Oh, now that’s real fun, ain’t it.
With any luck, though, the neighbor’s hot wife (in her PJ’s) will come out with their dog—but, no…it’s the neighbor’s hot wife’s husband—in his bathrobe and slippers.
“Hi, Tom.”
“Hi, Bill. Your dog’s peeing very well tonight.”
“Thanks—so’s yours. Nice leg lift, there.”
“Isn’t it, though.”
“Well, I gotta go in now…”
“Me, too…see you tomorrow morning—same time…”
“Right.”
And that is what they call “male bonding”.
Wow!!
Well, I have to leave you now—I gotta go clean the kitty litter box…