Yeah . . . Right

I sit here, nursing a sprained ankle in ice water and Epsom salts.  My gall bladder has been acting up for month, and the doctor says it will probably need to be removed.  The optometrist told me I'd only need my glasses for driving at night.  He lied.  I need them for watching television, reading, being on the computer, and seeing who I'm talking to, not to mention telling if I'm petting the cat or the dog.

You know why they call these the golden years?  Have you seen the price of gold?  It, like the price of gas, keeps going up.  That, my friends, is why middle age is the golden years. 

My doctors and pharmacist are on my Christmas card list.  Hey, I know who to take care of. 

The people at work . . . who are young enough to be my children . . . talk about their interests, then ask what I'm interested in.  Unfortunately, the actors, musicians, etc., all died before these kids were born.  The kids all nod, going, "Uh huh," to be polite, and wonder who this weird person is.  At least my cat understands me.  Oh well, I don't know who they're talking about, either.

But I'll survive.  Heck, there are worse things than middle age.  I'll know what they are one of these days.