[wdfifteen]

Being 60 is great. I don’t have to worry about being attractive any more. I know I’m not going to be physically attractive to any woman who has fewer wrinkles than I do and I don’t need any more “just friends.” Even if the unimaginable would happen, she’d better bring her own Viagra. That stuff’s expensive and I’m done footing the bill for every roll in the hay.
I got in off the road today after 9 hours of driving. I was wearing comfortable clothes – meaning I looked like I’d just gotten out of bed. I haven’t combed my hair all week. This is not a fashion statement. When I left home I’d only remembered my hairbrush on the fourth attempt to get out of the driveway before remembering something I’d forgotten. If I hadn’t also forgotten the charger for my iPhone I probably would not have gone back for it. It has been in the back of the car with the cameras and my extra pair of comfortable shoes all week.
The restaurant next to the motel happened to be an Applebees, which serves Tangueray gin and various substances that pass for food. I fumbled for my glasses as I shambled through the door and told the female greeter I wanted a comfortable seat and lots of space to spread out the daily newspaper. Not that long ago I would have assessed her attractiveness, but I was having trouble with my glasses, besides – and this is what is key - I didn’t really care what she looked like. She offered me a seat in one of those high tables for four that are meant for chatty people to sit at and socialize. I didn’t want to socialize. I didn’t even want to talk to her. I pointed to a booth sized for a family of eight and told her I’d sit there.
Not that many years ago I would have been checking out the clientele and the waitresses and enjoying the views, but I was still fumbling with my damn glasses as I settled into the booth. Some bubbly kid came to the table and started to talk. I held up my hand, “Tanguerey, up, very dry, two olives,” and turned back to my paper. It took a bit more fumbling before I realized one of the lenses of my glasses was missing and that was the reason I couldn’t see the paper – or the possibly hot waitresses, or the menu. I kind of cared about the menu.
About then I began to consider what I must look like from the other side of the broken glasses. Not that long ago I would have been very concerned about the image I projected. I prided myself on being alert, smart, well dressed, dignified, and exuding class. But there I was, a gray haired, bearded, disheveled guy trying to read the paper through a pair of glasses with one lens. I kind of hoped I wasn’t drooling, but didn’t really care. F-ck em, I’m 60.