On Turning 70

I turned 70.

It’s hard to believe and harder to say.

I don’t feel 70. Or maybe I do.

I don’t know what 70 should feel like.

I remember turning 60.

Yesterday.

I was in the best shape of my life.

High protein diet. 5 days a week in the gym.

No drinking. Counting carbs.

But my wife still wouldn’t fuck me.

So I thought, “If I can’t get fucked, I’ll drink.”

And I did.

And I do.

I’m still in the gym three or four days a week. But half-assing it.

You can’t workout enough to eliminate the impact of half a bottle of vodka everyday.

Yeah. Time changes. Everything.

Not being svelte would have worried me 10 years ago.

I just can’t remember why.

I guess because then I cared what people thought about me.

Now, at 70, I don’t give a fuck. Not one fuck.

Time changes. Everything.

I always liked bad girls.

I dated many and married one very bad girl.

And I was looking for another one when I accidentally met a good girl.

The first time I met her she told me, “I am house woman.” I had no idea what that meant. Until she explained it. “I like to be at home. I like to knit and crochet and take care of the home.”

My immediate reaction, “Check, please!” But I was, for a reason I can’t explain, intrigued.

Were we compatible?

Of course not.

She wasn’t an intellect. She couldn’t talk politics. She didn’t fuck on the first date. Or the second or the third. She didn’t bitch about my drinking or my writing or not wanting to be around a lot of people. She didn’t care who I once was or what I once did. She laughed at my filthy jokes even though she didn’t understand most of them.

But as I got to know her, I have to come to value peace over excitement.

I’m no longer looking for the girl who rock climbs, tans nude, drives a Harley, wears flat black Doc Martens, and is comfortable in a strip club, probably because she worked there.

I don’t want to worry about who she’s is fucking. Other than me, of course.

I don’t want to be told where to go, how to dress, and most especially what to say, or not to say.

I don’t want control and I don’t want to be controlled.

As I write this, she is sitting between my two dogs knitting a baby sweater for her granddaughter. I don’t know anything about knitting and have never been overly fond of children.

Perhaps what I like most at this moment is that neither of us feels the need to fill the air with the spoken word just to fill the void.

The void is where I am most comfortable.

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