PBS music specials actually intrigue you. You get your first gray hair. You'd rather listen to NPR than the top 40. You finally fathom that channel surfing is borne of frustration not attention deficit. The three letter word you fixate on is NAP. You comprehend why age and treachery will always trump youth and beauty. And that tact is for those who do not understand sarcasm.
So I wanted this to be blithe, but I find that soul baring is not my forte. Granted I admit I was less than thrilled to have a gray hair of my very own. But the thought of aging gracefully seems to be easier for the male sex. Not without its shortcomings mind you, I mean who is really thrilled by the prospect of ear, nose, and toe hair? But I don't feel the biological clock tick, tick, ticking. The pull, pull, pull, of the covers, and the toss, turn, sigh of a sleepless spouse are another story.
I do feel a disconnect from those younger than myself, and perplexed by an apparent lack of work ethics. I don't seem to connect to music on MTV or the radio as I once did. Although my lifelong obsession with literature has yet to be satiated.
I am clever, cunning, persnickety, and intense. Surrounded by close friends and a glass of Champagne and I am effervescent.