Age 65, which I am near, is starting to seem weird — as if I didn’t take 40, 50 and 60 seriously.
Did I even have those birthdays? And who is that white-haired guy in the window’s reflection?
If I could draw, the cartoon of my thoughts would be a dinosaur trying on Google glasses or admiring a smartwatch on a reptilian wrist. Something optimistic. No glancing skyward at the incoming meteorite.
I’m still trying to figure out what kind of saurus I am. I’ll have to ask one of my nephews if there is one known for good will.
Good karma heading into extinction might be the best I can do. I’ll probably still read about the death of newspapers after I retire. It’s been a 40-year parade. But I won’t feel so much like I fell off my horse in front of crowd.