I’ve never liked talking about my age. In fact, I wrote a piece a few years ago about never leading with your age. Anything else but that. I believed then (and I still do) that your age is the least interesting thing about you.
But the facts are the facts. Especially on your birthday. And there’s one more candle on the cake. Now there are so many there isn’t enough cake-space. Sad.
Then I woke up this morning and had this epiphany. It was time to address the elephant in my bedroom. I tried asking him to leave, but he would not. Flat out refused. Taunted me. Until I finally said it. Today I’m seventy-five. Fuck me.
Seriously, fuck me. Let’s squeeze in a few more fucks before it’s too late.
So now I’m fucking 75. How did that happen? Well, it did. In plain sight. Right in front of my face and under my nose and just above the collection of chin hairs that mock me daily. And the inconvenient truth is, there’s no going back now.
Since I can no longer ignore or hide my age I’ve decided to embrace it. Make the most of being an old fart. Reinvent myself. Try on some new hats. Maybe get some cool boots. Do some ass kicking. Learn a few sexy dance moves. Play the electric guitar. Fly an airplane. Take up teen slang. Lit. Fire. Aura. Fuck the elephant.
I might even piss a few people off. Just for the fun of it. Fuck it if they can’t take a joke. If I can’t express myself freely at 75, when the hell can I?
