God I’m Old

Poke me.

Brenton is mowing our lawn with gas I bought in a milk jug and it smells good and it smells like summer. The setting sun tonight was hot pink and orange and hot sex and I liked it.

I think I’m down to about a 50% chance of survival every time I get into my car. There are noises and groanings and pleas for automobile euthanasia.

Ray Romano in his Pulitzer-winning comedy book says you’re getting old if you can name two anti-depressants other than Prozac. Strike One. Or, he says, if you can’t remember if you’ve shampooed in the morning. Strike two. Today I didn’t even stop and think about it, so sure was I that I hadn’t washed my hair yet. Turns out I had. I hate wasting shampoo because there are so many starving children in Africa and our nation is at war and I like to do my part to help out. Like not eat meat on Wednesdays and ration my hair products. For the troops.

I want to be on a trampoline by a pool right now and feel young and vibrant and nineteen.