The middle ages…

No, not the fun ones with Knights and swords and maidens and dragons and wizards with pointy hats.

The boring ones. The boring one. Middle age. The point where you are officially dead. I’m haven’t quite gotten there yet, but I am.

Slowly but surely I am.

And the inexorable slide towards that dreaded period began this weekend. And it wasn’t the fact that I spent New Year’s Eve at work , trying to desperately beat a deadline, or the fact that I was so exhausted that I fell asleep through that momentous minute, or the fact that I did not bother to make plans because I knew I would be working.

No what drove it home were the events of the next day. I went furniture shopping. To an Ikea showroom. Furniture shopping. Bah! And not for anything reasonably irresponsible, like a bar stool or a Laz-Boy recliner. What I went looking for was a Chest of Drawers. Something Nice. That Would Go With The Carpet.

And the sad part of it is that I did not go shopping like I usually do. In and out with a minimum of fuss. I spent time comparing products and visualizing furniture placement. Where has that boy gone, the one who fell asleep as his parents were shopping for living room chairs, the one who refused to leave the car as they were looking for new curtains. (For the record I haven’t sunk low yet. Yet.)

I finally have a car. I have named it “Debt”. I own one of the cup holders and some of the air in the trunk. My bank owns the rest.

I’ve figured out the exact time when you’ve become old. It’s when someone says that you look younger than you actually are and you take that as a compliment.

Oh yes, a Happy “Gratuitous Obscenities and Assorted Expletives” New Year. To all those I forgot to call up, and that list is longer than I am comfortable with, I apologize.

Now go get drunk.