Don't Fear the Reaper

I think it's quite insecure of oneself to fear aging. I recall turning thirty and thinking what a robust, intelligent person I was. Then forty came along, and those same feelings surged through my fiber, along with financial security, and feelings of grandeur and pomposity. And as I was busy feeling all the invincibilities of being king of the jungle, fifty hit me smack square in the gut.

Now fifty ain't forty by any means. Fifty brings on a whole set of circumstances that you slowly realize are new to you. You can't run as fast as you once did. You need glasses to read the paper. You take prescription medications for things you never thought you would be dealing with only a few years earlier. Getting out of bed, dressing, making coffee, and certain sundry tasks take an hour or more of your day. Oh well, I think I'll sit and take a nice nap, after all I've been up an hour by now.
The one thing that I do realize which gets better with age is a sense of humor. Finally I can laugh at my own misfortune. If the battery is dead in the family car, well at 30 I would have fumed over it. Now I just laugh and tell myself I'll have to get over to Sears today and have them check it out once the car is jumped by some kind neighbor.
Speaking of neighbors, I've got a great one. He's sixty nine years old, and full of spunk. That gives me hope that there are better things to come than just waking up, making coffee, and taking naps. I may after all be getting better with age, just like music. I don't like Usher, Beyonce, and Justin Timberlake. Give me a little Blue Oyster Cult. I got a fever and the only prescription is more cowbell.