TC has been telling his friends that I’m 42. My spine straightening and chest out, yes indeed, I’m still a spring chicken. But why, I ask, not 39, I can wean a couple of more years. “Chris – don’t be ridiculous, you can’t pull that off, I just don’t want them to think I’m dating a dirty old man”. I sulk away. I guess I’m not a spring chicken after all. My hair is almost gray, my eyesight is going, I can feel aches in my joints that weren’t there before, a wrinkle here, a little extra width there (and not in the good place), I move a little slower, damn it — I’m getting old.
But with age comes some learned experiences. I can explain why you never put cheese on fish, the nuances of sipping aged balsamic vinegar like a port wine or take you on a world trip discussing the numerous grape varietals and how wine is made. You will taste life with me. We can chat about the writings of Kafka or talk about how one of the most joyous of all Christmas songs was bequeath to us by a failure of a man who died almost penniless (Jingle Bells). I’m just full of all sorts of worthless bits n’ bobs.
Days I feel too old to retrain, just put me out to pasture. I’d be happy to sit on a park bench and feed the squirrels, f*ck everything. We’re all too important and too much in a hurry to enjoy life. I was saddened by the early death of George Carlin, his Thoughts on Life are worth reading. I fear most being alone, next to that I fear being with someone I really don’t wanna be with.
Well, I leave you know, I’m off to another ‘dam Dutch city today, back Tuesday night, don’t wait up.