Intrepid Optimist is the place where I can share my stories; fact, fiction and thoughts from the past and present. It’s Written by myself for people who believe adventure knows no age
This morning; once again, I became aware, while attempting to shave with my mobile telephone, that I have passed, by modern reckoning, my shelf life. However, I hasten to assure my friends that on the axiom that the eighties are the new sixties; I am not growing mouldy, malodorous or curdled. I still aim to become vintage, or if possible, a Grand cru. As T. S. Eliot poetised; “Do not let me hear of old men, but rather of their folly.”
This morning’s lapse was nothing to do with ageing. It wouldn’t have happened if I had come home early and refused that last glass, or indeed, if I had not hidden my electric razor under the pillow in the hope it would not awaken me at seven.
I am constantly being told – at times ordered – to look after myself and remember my age. As if I could forget it. Growing old is not an easy occupation; knowing how to is one of the most difficult chapters in the art of living. We constantly talk of sight or hearing loss. Then there’s the figure or a surplus of flesh, baldness or an excess of hair, thrombosis, cancer and in-growing toenails. All of which, which if truth be known, are part of our human legacy. So why not treat them as such and get on with living.
Nowadays, younger people tend to be over-occupied with themselves, but for the ageing person – include yours truly – it is an obligation to give serious attention to themselves. In Hemmingway’s, Farewell to Arms – and still one of my favourite novels – he writes that the wisdom of old men is a fallacy. They do not grow wise. They grow careful. This is what I am trying to do, but with a couple of options.
A theory has it that man is old as his arteries. If so, another bottle boyo, to keep them flowing.
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