About a block into my morning walk today with my dog by-my-side (well, 9-feet ahead of me somewhere), I notice my trousers are on inside/out.
It’s not turning 56-years old today that makes me feel old; it’s deciding to continue my walk, regardless of the dog-ear pockets about my hips; and the wagging white tag at my rear, announcing my situation to all whom I pass.
As Momma always taught, I simply pressed on.
In similar fashion with all my endeavors, despite how silly it may seem, I continue to convince myself that I’ll, get into the best shape of my life someday very soon. I still speak of my novel ideas as if they’ll materialize any day now. My art will hang in New York; my books will collect coffee table spills in art house easy speaks throughout the land; and all this will come about, despite having my pants on ass-wacked and wayward, as I stroll through this sensible, decent, neighborhood I live in.
I accept that I’m delusional. I understand I’m more talk than action most of the time, but I’m still talking, still acting and still able to walk my dog all over town without fear of too much scorn.
Whether it’s the beast or the best that I have to look forward to in my future I’ll keep looking ahead, and I’ll try looking down more often too, while still holding my hopes up high.