One of the ironies of aging–at least, in my own particular case–is that no matter how my chronological age cranks upward, my inner Peter Pan merrily cruises along at roughly 16, 17 years old.
If I can’t find my keys, it’s not because I forgot that I left them in my big boy britches; it’s because one of AnniePie’s damn cats played with them and failed to return them to the top nightstand drawer.
So it is one need become aware of a few outward signs of aging such as this smattering offered here for your consideration and contemplation. Heed, dear friends, the tell tale signs of cresting that proverbial hill. You know you are getting old when….
Your posse wants to go for a night on the town, but you would rather stay home and curry comb the cat.
You go to Las Vegas for the buffets.
Your “Get Up and Go” is the name of your fiber supplement.
Your artsy fartsy apartment is just fartsy.
You plan a road trip to Canada for prescription meds.
Your mate starts softly singing “Light My Fire” so you go crank up the heating unit thermostat.
You still go fishing to get away from it all, but somehow you always forget to take any bait.