The benefits of being fitty-five (and older)……

You can leave your billfold/purse (ID) at home and still buy liquor.

Fitty-nine cent senior coffee at Mickey D’s. (The back of the menu at Denny’s… they too should have a Grand(pa) and Grand(ma) Slam.)

Ass kissing no longer happens anywhere except the bedroom.

Ladders are no longer climbed, both occupationally, and the ones with rungs.

Once or twice a year you get to see someone you haven’t seen since high school and you think “ohhhhh shit.” (We’re often forgetful too that just mebbe we’ve changed a bit in the mirror.)

We can no longer produce offspring. (Hell yeah!)…

We sit back in awe as our bodies “garden”. One just never knows which ear a long ole hair will suddenly sprout… or… exactly where that new brownspot will grow root.

Even though it’s not the biggest bedroom in the house, we move into it because it’s so close to the bathroom. What usedta be close calls are now “uh oh’s”.

Running is for young punks. As we watch them run, we can sit back and think “I told you so” in that one day soon they’ll have aching knee joints, less cushion there, lower back problems – and that no matter what, one day their abdominal area will look very much like everyone else’s abdominal area at age fitty-five. So why?

It’s sooooooooooo incredibly wonderful to listen, converse, visit – and where maybe ten, twenty years ago we’da wanted to blurt “you friggin’ idiot! Are you crazy?” we now can just sit back, smile, match ‘em eye for eye and think it instead.

Snow is colder. Rain is wetter. Sunshine is hotter.

Clouds are prettier, older ones are funner to watch, the invigorism of the real young ones bring genuine smiles.

Resume. Has nothing to do with a formal typed document. It has to do with waking up to pee at 2am, and resuming sleep.

If married, sex has gone from tri-weekly, to try-weekly. If single and you ever happen to get that far – perhaps it’s fear that sends each scurrying (not running, but scurrying) back to their own abodes. Naked, whilst anytime is wonderful, it too is a little scarier at age fitty-five.

The list of “have to’s” has really dwindled. Instead of our youthful “I want what I want and I want it now”… we’ve replaced it with “I’ll do whateverinthehell I want, whenever (or not) I want.”

Going to get the mail is a sufficient cardiovascular workout for the day. Even Fido agrees as he meets you at the door. He acts as if you’ve been to the Bahamas for two weeks.

Opening the mail is usually just cause for a nap.

You don’t listen or like any music produced since 1980.

You get toward the bottom of lists like this and your mind wonders. Attention span not what it once was. Please scroll to “I’ll do whateverinthehell I want, whenever (or not) I want.”

Sorry, that’s all for today. I’m gonna go pee, look for new golden ear hairs, brownspots and to see if the “oopsies” en route to the bathroom would entail new undies for the day, or simply if flipping them would suffice until tomorrow.

I can drive fitty-five. (And usually do. It really pisses people off on the Interstate.) Always remember, fitty-five times two is a hunnerd and ten. You/I ain’t never gonna see that… so please… soak up the day, make it of note.. if u can’t get the corners of your mouth to point upward – stand on your head. With mucho love, Victurd.