As I stared at the huge front moving in from the Southwest I was struck by a thought, so turning from the mirror, I sat on the bed and contemplated my socks, they were like me, a trifle faded, slightly threadbare, but otherwise serviceable. On Christmas Eve I had become sixty...."Sixty - it's the new forty!" said my friends (the majority on the wrong side of fifty five), so what does this mean? It possibly means a mid-life crisis extending for another twenty years sauced with an existential/thanatophobic crisis due to the certain knowledge that the end of existence is coming a step closer (especially if you buy that motorbike), i.e. it's all downhill from here.
However, this vertiginous career to the grave/furnace is now tempered with inappropriate mid-life anxieties: should one start, not, or stop, looking at girls. How old is "too old" for a floral shirt, or have you passed the point where anyone cares how you look? Slippers - retro, anathema, essential? Flirt, Charmer or Dirty Old Man? This was all proving too much - I put my shoes on.
No comments:
Post a Comment