Selling out the light for the cellulite

At the risk of sounding old, because I am. Although perhaps, if I stood in the shadows, dimmed the light, and squnited I may get away with looking 10 months younger.  I will then have dreams of mutton will dress as lamb, if one has handy some sticky back tape, a pair of scissors and the Angel Valerie in attendance. If truth be told, as it often is, its hard to see the facts staring me in my mirrored face. No wrinkles will see my retinas with or without cataracts. Oops I am afraid, wrinkles will have their day in the sun.

I am facing not only jowls the size that says "Feed Me......come on  Big Mac", but I am also facing the fact that the good years may be behind me. As careers go, I should get use to my cubicle-space allocation quota. The shape of things to come is not getting bigger. The light at the end of my tunnel  may damn well be getting nearer but it is not getting brighter.

I look around the desk that is my empire, a laptop, a phone, cupboards, shelves, and see...... is this my reward for the years when I scorched earth, where I broke through glass ceilings with bloody wounds, where I broke down the walls of heart attack aches with a Beta blocker or two ,where I put my foot in doors whether open or not.  I threw metaphorical grenades as friends became ex- friends, faster than Bruno Mars could come to the conclusion catching grenades for ya is not a good idea.

I may still cut it as the wise old jowled head of sanity, but sanity is a burden that I carry in the face of a wave that has King Canute's name on it.

These days  I see my dynamism as quaint, running up that hill like a Jack the Lad  with a pale look and furrowed brow, my mojo as perhaps a tad to earnest, a tad too unnecessary, when there were other things to do, like being a Dad. My foot perhaps was not so much, in , through , over doors as in my mouth. And by gum these days I could easily accomodate size nines with enough room for a Big Mac to sneak pass.