Shit, I’m old!

So it struck me – the insight – not as a kick in the head, but more like an autumn leave, slowly falling to the ground to die. I have grown old. Bloody hell!

In the past, it was considered inappropriate to ask for a woman’s age. Still later on, in the age of feminism and gender equality, women have used this antiquated custom to somehow avoid the truth of aging, or at least keep it a secret. I used to resent that. Today I’ve kind of changed my point of view on that issue.

I mean, how come one may ask for a man’s age, but not a woman’s? Why do we even care about the number of years at all? And what does that number mean? Well, obviously it brings out expectations of adapted behavior and maturity, from which we value children as precocious and old people as alive and kickin’ dispyte a great age. And when we’ve gotten older than we wish we were, we put on a deceptive smile and says that one aint older than one feels. Yeah right!

But there it is, my like-a-leave-falling-insight; I feel damn old! For example:

  • Nowadays, I philosophize and ponder about my opinions and values, more than just having them.
  • Resting is an underrated form of exercise. And I get more fit from practising qigong and meditation than from lifting dumbbells and barbells.
  • My cravings for beer and burgers have been replaced by inclination fore red wine and cauliflower.
  • Sometimes I speak wisely.
  • I’m getting more attractive by age. But my sight is getting blurry.
  • I find the question about night life’s opening hours incomprehensible. How can anyone want to stay awake untill five’o’clock?
  • I have always said that I don’t care about what people think. Nowadays, it happens that I really mean it.
  • Small stores with organic food are more interesting than hardware- or Apple stores.
  • I go for a run with folksongs and local ballads in the headphones, rather than Eye of the tiger and Boys are back in town.
  • Fucking is still fun, but a good book and a cup of tea is not so bad either.

So. That’s it. I’m old. Because I feel old. Old. Old and spry. Old and spry and handsome. Old and spry and handsome and wise. Old and spry and handsome and wise and brave.

And there is not a number in the world that can summarize that.


About blogbypa

Swedish writer, voice over-artist and photographer who practises reflexology. Would like to change the world, but settles with a wish to bring a thought, a sense or even make someone feel better, if only for a while. Believes in the the inward and outward human force. Works out, run in woods, meditate and practise qigong. Likes to find another way. Blogs about life, neither more nor less. Or both. About love and stupidity, death and nudity, lies and wise men in trees. Questions habits and patterns, traditions and people’s disability to stick to the truth. Wants to write with love. Or with anger. And often with a twinkle. But without self-pity or cant. Decorates the discourses with Iphone-pics. It’s just a hang-up. If you’re interested in the real pictures, please visit View all posts by blogbypa

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