I am blogging less lately but enjoying it more -- wait, that's not really true. I
am blogging less than I used to, and I suppose my advancing age has something to do with it. I am now somewhere between "beginning to slow down" and being overtaken by the "general malaise" that President Jimmy Carter used to talk about back in the '70s. Since I am also in my 70s now -- halfway through them, in fact -- I cannot claim to be the man I once was. Take my hair, for instance. Too late. Most of it is already gone. And my skin, my skin, the largest organ in my body and also in yours, has morphed into something unrecognizable. I am reminded of the old joke about the old man who decided to streak through his neighborhood and as he passed the bus stop one old woman said, "What was that?" and another old woman said, "I don't know, but it definitely needed ironing."
Where was I?
Oh, yes. Wondering whether I am enjoying things more now that I am doing them less. Some fellow once said, "Burt Reynolds puts his pants on the same way I do, one leg at a time" and some other fellow said, "That may be true, but he gets to do it more often." If you substitute the name of the hunk
du jour for Burt Reynolds you will undoubtedly agree that the second man was a truth-teller.
Digressing seems to be what I do best.
I do think that I enjoy blogging as much as ever, but I just don't seem to get around to doing it as often as when I
was in my prime had more energy could actually remember that a fair amount of time had passed since my last post.
So I'm blogging today, more because it fills up time and space than that I have something scintillating to say.
The truly cruel among my readership will now say, "It has been ever thus."
Until next time, I remain
Yr intrepid reporter,
Rhymes With Plague
