Some unconnected thoughts on the aging process

Apparently, I turned 50 today.

I’m not clear how it happened, but through dint of sheer survival, I am now officially middle-aged. I am no longer merely a cranky asshole, I now qualify as a curmudgeon, which is what I've always aspired to be.

I have now surpassed the average life expectancy of the citizens of Classical Rome – particularly if they drank from those lead pipes. About 92% of American males survive past my age, but then again, very few Africans survive even this long. I suppose I can take comfort in that (I’m a strong supporter of schadenfreude).

(Incidentally, it’s the rare spellcheck program that will recognize "schadenfreude," assuming you’re not speaking German. Ironically, very few spellcheck programs will recognize the word "spellcheck," either.)

I share a birthday with Oscar Wilde and playwright Eugene O'Neill, and both of those motherfuckers are dead. Pamela Bach was born exactly the same day I was in 1963, but at least I never married David Hasselhoff. So there’s that.

I succeeded in reaching this age without really trying. I don't work out, I drink, I drive too fast; the only thing I've done right in my life was marry my wife. I took the road less traveled by, got lost, and failed to find any money along the way.

I'm apparently also losing bone mass at a ridiculous rate. Maybe that will help me lose weight. Or maybe I should drink more milk; I'm not clear which way to go with that.

Overall, I really have no clear plan, which might well be part of the problem. I just intend to keep doing what got me through five decades of life so far. Keep moving and see what happens.

I grow old... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.