Friday, August 31, 2012
Saw this photo on a tattoo site I follow. It struck a chord. People who know me know that I do not look like your typical 42yo business professional. That's because I am not. I work in an industry that is rife with conservatism and I play along, as needed.
Occasionally someone feels the need to explain to me that I need to grow up. I need to match their sense of what I should be.
I don't deny my years, or live in some sort of desperate battle against the march of time. I see it coming, and feel its effects. There's no fighting the inevitable.
Remaining young is a goal of the mind, more so than the body. My blood still boils at the first chords of my favorite old punk songs, and I seek new bands that instill the same excitement. I can still laugh at the dumbest of jokes, or be engrossed by something as simple as the wind blowing waves across the water. My bikes still take me to that escape and liberation that I found when I was a kid cruising the neighborhoods.
I look at my tattoos and wonder what they will look like when I'm ancient. But, I do not regret. Each is a reminder of a time in my life, and I like remembering. With time, the mind has a funny way of laundering our memories, and keeping our favorites near the top of the stack. I think it's Nature's way of assisting our souls in remaining Forever Young.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
All this thunder and rain; It's the sound of me getting slower.
Everyday, the predictions swing wildly, and the accuracy is only mildly more reliable. 80% chance, and we've got dust bunnies and blue skies. 30% day ends in a monsoon.
It's the same ol' cliche. "A monkey could be a weather man." "My window is my best weather judge." "They should be paid on accuracy."
I don't want the job, as I think it's Mother Nature's sense of humor, treating meteorologists as her whipping boys. "Predict me, will you?! I doubt it. You're not worthy!"
I have a rain bike built, but it's far from my favorite ride. So I hedge my bets, leave it in favor of another, and come up snake eyes. Can I really continue to blame it on fate, when I make the same bad wager, over and over?
Time to wake up and smell the mud puddles. Time to break out my fenders and older, tired, kits. Find that old pair of shoes that still had just enough life left in them, to warrant a spot in the corner of the closet. Time they earned their keep, again.
Fool's Gold is looming, and I guess I better start earning my own keep.