Tom T. Hall once explained the Meaning of Life: “It’s faster horses, younger women, older whiskey, and more money.”
Most of the women with whom I’ve formed any real emotional attachment have been between three and ten years younger than I am.
But if you don’t think it’s a genuine thrill to sleep with a woman half your age, you’re kidding yourself so you can sleep at night. It’s like driving a badly-developed NASA American Iron Extreme car nothing but smooth flesh and full lips and fresh scent.
Well, driving a NASA AIX car is nothing like that. But you get the idea.
I’m forty-three; my expiration date is approaching fast enough to Doppler-shift the noise. When I’m sixty years old I can live a life of the mind the same as I can now but I won’t be able to do what I can do physically now.
I don’t want to look back at my life and count all the opportunities I avoided due to fear or self-pity.
Come see me in thirty years. I’ll either be a grown-up or I’ll be in the ground.
I suppose, by this definition, I’m some sort of grown-up. Who knew?