When one enters those golden years of retirement and reflection on one’s life, you grok things that have evaded your understanding. Maybe you completely ignored certain things earlier in life, or reserved a particular exercise in cosmic contemplation for another day.
Guess what? Sometime around the age of sixty, that day of contemplation will come, whether you want it or not. As a matter of fact, some things you totally forgot to think about will come back and haunt you as a blinding glimpse of the obvious (BGO).
You will remember conversations from thirty years ago where you were completely slimed by someone you thought was a friend. Past occasions float into your memory, and you suddenly realize that something you did socially was the equivalent of farting in church. It was just wrong, and you didn’t even realize it at the time.
The redeeming thing to the sexagenarion male about these revelations is that they don’t matter, anymore. Age is an effective leavening factor in knowledge, emotions, and attitude. You see, old guys just don’t care.
Just as my 15-year-old hound dog doesn’t care where he hikes his leg, old guys get to the point where they don’t care where they relieve themselves, either. Well, the poor old hound can’t hike his leg, anymore. Come to think of it, I can’t hike mine, either.
When you see an old man wandering around with his fly unzipped, it is not that he is flashing people, or trying to scare teenage girls. He is no longer a threat to anybody, and he knows it. He also doesn’t care who hears him curse, either, and there will be a whole lot of cussing from an old guy because some of his parts don’t work anymore.
So, instead of kicking my old hound dog when he pees on the floor, I just cuss him some and clean it up. I am afraid I am starting to understand the old boy, after all.