On Sunday night, an acquaintance asked me how old I was. I looked at him, trying to gauge his interest and said darkly, “twenty-two, but I’ll be twenty-three in a few weeks.” He responded, “Oh, so you’ll be needing a cane.”
Old Age! Once you graduate from college, Death’s clammy fingers start to niggle at your ankles. Suddenly, the whole “career-marry-kids-grandkids-nursinghome-hospital-death-graveyard” scenario looms closer than it ever has before.
Ditched on the cold sidewalks of LIFE, your inner guidance counselor says with enthusiasm, “Time to start career building! Go on! Start moving forward! You’re AN ADULT!” But your inner nudist-artist-lover responds, “HOLD UP. Ok?! Just wait a second.” And picking up a ukelele she sings, “I need timmme to find meee. Timmme to nooooodle, timeee to be freeeee.”
Not sure which inner voice is right, but it is awfully dreary to keep looking at the world like a cynical human.
Possibility blossomed before my eyes. 1 life became 9. Twenty-three became the beginning of a new, post-collegiate life – not another step down into a dark, dusty sepulcher.
When you need to be consoled,
Cuz someone says “you’re too darn old,”
Or too “mature” for this or that,
Just remember you’re a cat!
You’ve got 9 lives to live on the edge,
Forget the nay-sayers, full steam ahead!
Rosie (the Cat)