Fuck. I'm Old.

Today marks my 46th year on the planet. It could be more if you factor in the thetans the Scientologists say inhabit my body or the slug a Buddhist might claim I was in my previous life. Given how I feel these days, that latter one might have some merit. Come to think of it, after getting kicked in the kidneys all night by a toddler sorta feels like being thrown into a volcano from a DC-8, so maybe Tom Cruise is onto something. No matter how you tally it, there's one inescapable conclusion:

I'm getting old.

Don't get me wrong, I hope to have many more years to bitch and moan about how old I am. My paternal grandparents lived into their 90s, so I may have some decent genes that can overcome Monsanto's evil plan to kill everyone prematurely with pesticides and turn us all into Soylent Green. Seriously, man. I read it on the internet.

Every year it gets a little harder to do stuff like lose weight or operate on minimal sleep. After the bump I got from losing a large chunk of weight in my mid-thirties, it's been a pretty steady decline. In all fairness, I don't do everything I can to fight the slide. An all-kale and quinoa diet would probably do wonders for me, but I would wish for the blissful release of death all that much more. Nope, while I'm here I'm going to enjoy myself, and that means pork fat.

I'm hoping once the devil spawn learns to stay in his own bed and I can sleep a full night without being contorted into unnatural positions to avoid the rough soles of his footie pajamas that I'll bound out of bed like I once did and greet the new day with boundless energy. OK, that never happened, but it's nice to have dreams.

I'm getting older, but I can look to some of my bike racing competitors that are much older than me but still manage to kick me in the lady parts on a regular basis.

Maybe there's hope after all.

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