Am I A Fine Wine Getting Better With Age or a Fine Whiner Getting Bitter With Age?

So what’s up with me? Where have I been lately?

Sorry, hard to get back into the swing of work. Good thing I’m not a teacher; imagine if I had had two months off instead of one week — yikes.

Funny that I got the most done on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I think having some sort of time constraint really makes a difference. It’s a lot easier to put off something on Monday if you know you have 6 days to get it done.

Tonight I am at the halfway point in my classes. I like the classes but it sure is hard to go to school after working all day. I don’t know how some people do this two or three nights a week for four or five years. These are people with determination, drive, and probably someone to do the laundry. I was going to say youth but didn’t. I have been blaming a lot of my problems on age lately. I find myself saying “I’m too old to [fill in the blank]” or “Nothing I can do about [fill in the blank] it comes with age” a lot. Now while this may be true for a number of things:

  • I’m too old to have a baby
  • Nothing I can do about my eyesight getting worse, it comes with age
  • I’m too old to be on American Idol
  • Nothing I can do about liver spots, it comes with age
  • I’m too old to join the Army (and a nation breathes a collective sigh of relief)

but it is as if I’ve given up and raised some sort of white flag (which I believe is actually a pair of old lady underpants) and surrendered, just waiting for death now.

I need to regroup, change directions, make a new plan Stan, get on the bus Gus, pick up the key Lee (wait that’s 50 ways to leave your lover) — you get my drift. I use to say I wanted to grow old disgracefully but I’ve let myself down. Perhaps before I start crocheting doilies to put on my tables and arm rests, I should have a little more fun.