Aye God Woodrow,
If you know that quote, then we're basically on the same page. Larry McMurtry wrote Lonesome Dove about a couple of dried up old Texas Rangers who wound up having one last great adventure before well, in Gus's case, before he bought the farm, or should I say, the ranch.
No, I'm not at death's door . . . but all morning I've been getting subtle reminders that I'm just not the proverbial spring chicken anymore.
It began when I went to pop my chocolate chip Eggo waffles into the toaster and one jumped out of my hand and hit the floor in a crazy imitation of the Gingerbread Man. I grabbed that sucker before it could run and stuck it right into the toaster.
Now, if you know me, you'll understand why that was my first clue that the tides of time had rolled in. I'm a bit finicky when it comes to food. Always have been. Nowadays, however, I hate waste more than a few dog hairs (I blew on the frozen waffle, and it hadn't been three seconds so I figured I was okay. I'd followed all those rules I've heard about).
But here's the deal: a few months ago, that waffle would have gone into the trash. These days, it just seems like meh, what's the big deal?
So I've got my waffles and my coffee and I'm reading the morning paper. First article on the op-ed page is by Charlena Chandler, a native West Texan who knows the score. She was lamenting the disappearance of her ankles in the shoe store mirror. No, it wasn't a trick mirror . . . ankles do tend to disappear after a certain age. I mean, look, they take the weight of our entire bodies for years. Why wouldn't they revolt and move to some tropical isle where the sand is soft and warm and high heels and work shoes are strictly verboten?
I rush to the mirror to check my own ankles. Whew! They are still there, just a bit thicker than before (and what are these little red dots all over my calves? All those years standing in front of a class on cement floors perhaps?) Sheesh. It's always something.
So I head to the computer to take my mind off my, um, youth. And the first thing that pops up on FB is a picture of a portable TV next to a roll of aluminum foil. The caption says "Hit Share if you know the connection." Well, who doesn't know about wrapping foil on the rabbit ears of the . . . oh, carp. I give up. I'm darned old. Not ancient. Not yet. But I'm closer than I was yesterday.
On the other hand, I'm also still kicking. So I hit share. Posted the pic to my own wall right next to the one I found yesterday . . . the one of John Fogerty rockin' a huge arena somewhere just outside the realm of my comfortable driving distance (okay, that's not true. Dude and I totally would've been there if we'd known about it in time. But I didn't know about it until it was over. Gotta spend more time on FB--can't believe I just said that).
So, the moral of the morning? If John Fogerty is still rockin' at his age, then getting old might not be so bad.
Afterthought: Besides, he's a lot older than me . . . heck, I think he's Dude's age =)