BRASHLY POSITIVE VIEW

Seeing as this is the month in which I turn fifty three, it seems a good idea to take stock of my life.
If I don't do it, no one else will. 

The bad news is that fifty three isn't twenty three or thirty three. 
Not that I would want to experience either of those ages again, but I wouldn't mind being that young and sprightly.

The good thing is that I'm still employed, which in this economy takes both good luck, and genius of a magnitude so staggering as to amaze myself. 
I've still got all of my marbles, or at least the ones that count.
Healthy, full of piss and vinegar.
With a snarky attitude.

[On the material side, there is enough pipe tobacco stashed away that I can survive the coming Zombie Apocalypse -- everyone knows zombies HATE smoking -- plus a large collection of briars, books, and teapots.  No entertainment system, no flashy watches or sportscars, no timeshare in a vacation home in a perfectly dreary part of the world.]

And I have friends that I care about. 
Which is one of the most important things.


I do not have a girlfriend (the erstwhile squeeze is one of the friends I care about), nor offspring, and while I lament the lack of the first-mentioned quantity in my life, I do not especially regret the absence of children; putting them through college would be both a severe burden and a profound source of stress in today's world. 

Still, no sweetness.  Dang.

[Insert wry smile here.]

What I also have is the freedom to be a lively and somewhat irresponsible middle-aged coot.  The liberty to behave as if I were still twenty three or thirty three, with a bit more maturity and wisdom.

Smoking my pipes, reading books, indulging in caffeinated beverages (warm and comforting!), and thinking naughty thoughts without any sense of guilt. 
That last, of course, because that thinking has no object and no target. 
Well, no point and no use, either, but that seems a very minor quibble.
If I were fortunate enough to find someone interesting I might redirect those fantasies, but given that a snarky middle-aged coot is not anyone's dreamboat, doing so could be dangerous.
And would very likely be disappointing.
An imperfect waste of time.

Instead of worrying about what might be, I now read a lot more than I used to when I was still in a relationship - I'm alone frequently enough these days that it is easy to do so - and smoke my pipe more often.

Which is precisely what the next twelve months will also be occupied with. 

If, speaking hypothetically, a nice person of the female persuasion were to catch my attention, it would be because she expressed the insight that reading for several hours in the quiet of a weekend afternoon sounds like the perfect thing to do, with another person who is also that way inclined. 
Perhaps at an opportune moment breaking for a bite to eat at a romantic little restaurant on Hyde Street or in Chinatown.
As well as frequently enjoying tasty dishes which I had prepared.
I love to cook; doing so needs someone with whom to dine.
The foregoing is all purely speculative, however.
Don't put any money on this race.


I can imagine myself, a few years hence, sitting on a ledge overlooking the bay at early evening, with a volume, a pipe, and ........  a cat.
A fiercely independent-minded cat.
But nevertheless, a cat.

I don't actually know many humans who read, you see.
And most of those object to tobacco use.
Or are, unfortunately, male.


Seafood. I can tempt them with seafood.
Yeah.



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