On being old

Lately, when I catch my reflection in a window, I see a man I don’t recognize. One I don’t like to imagine is the man others see when they look at me.

Partly, this is a function of age. Time. Mortality. My mind is convinced I’m 40. My body increasingly betrays that I’m off by more than a decade.

But there are men my age who are hot. Men whose bodies, whose carriage, are at their peak. Zaddies. Or Zaddys. I’m not sure which.

I’m continually surprised, and saddened, that I’m not – at least for the time being – one of those men. For a few years there, I most definitely was. But those years ended. A few years ago.

Fingers crossed that the next twelve months will see my return to Zaddyhood.

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