No country for old men.
When you’re my age, there’s little need for birthday parties; no need to wake the dead or everyone in the nursing home, what I’m saying.
I observed my birthday last weekend, to little fanfare, I submit, but it’s the way I wanted it. I’m too damn old and tired to celebrate birthdays.
For the record, I’m on the high side of 70. But, hey, who’s counting? Not me, I can tell you that.
I quit counting when I thought I was 45 and my 4-year-old daughter reminded me I was 46.
Are you sure? I demanded. Absolute proof?
Grumpy old men get grumpier as the years pile on. We forget more, swear more, work less, drive less, seldom exercise and spend a lot of time experiencing wakefulness wishing we were asleep.
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