"I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled." So lamented one J Alfred Prufrock in TS Eliot's poem. The shrinking, the diminishing, the awkwardness of aging. The props.
I have new reading glasses. Gawd, what a difference. No more holding the page arm's length away. No more squinting at my paperwork.
And I have a trucker tan. Tan, you say? 'Good, you.' Ah but this is no ordinary tan.
Left arm considerably more toasty than the right, until mid-bicep where each are equalized by my tee-shirt's protection. You can imagine what happens at the point where neck meets collar, as well.
And I'm wearing shorts! for the first time in my professional life. One one hand, I hear your approving, 'Yay, you.' So cool. So comfy. On the other hand, extra brown knees and milky-white below the boot line.
As Prufrock lamented, 'I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.' ... but I'm okay with that.