Like a bolt out of the blue

Today,this afternoon, mere moments ago, the house took a sojourn to the local amusement park, Castles ~n~ Coasters.  It's northwest Phoenix's local put-put and arcadia venue.

Harkening back to a previous post where I discussed getting an invitation to my 20-year high school class reunion (to be held this upcoming March), where I openly wondered whether we (the royal we) were really that old.  Jury's still out, but what I can confirm is that the generations subsequent to the X (millennials, Gen-Z, the Alphas(?)), really are that young.

Crazy thing is I remember being one of those scurrying youths, going from game to game like a juvenile who snuck into some Turkish bazaar with its unending tables of foreign treats, once upon a time; however, injury, rehabilitation, subsequent educational matriculation, have overwritten those memories, or at least made them hazy as Chronos is wont to do.

I presume that much of that jolt is resultant of the fact that I was isolated for so long; in the hospital everyone, Drs, nurses, et al. were much older than me; when I went back to school, my peer group was roughly the same age as me (sure, I was ~2 years older); college some older, some equivalently aged, most younger, then I took only a one-year internship-hiatus, when I resumed my curricular pursuits in business school, my peerage group was indubitably more mature, much older and curricularly-minded.  I had been sheltered in an aging cohort, not ever realizing the aging process, when all the faces that I would see were aging with me day-by-arduous day.

Alas that bolt out of the blue acted as a much needed bracer, or more aptly, a slap across the face of the hysteric, telling me to wake the hell up, sally forth, and get back to my mission. Similar I think to a Raymond James, brokerage house, comercial which cautions: Don't run out of money, before you run out of time.  I could be getting the company wrong, but the point is nevertheless still valid: I don't wish to run out of chances (get too old as choices naturally dwindle [spread out across the event horizon] the further from the origin a branching cladogram branches) before I run out of energy..  Imagine March Madness bracketology only in reverse, I think this may not be an apt analogy (I never really was a sports nut).  But as I age, the field of available women narrows/spreads (fewer and farther between).  I'm not quite sure that I want to be that gray haired old guy chasing significantly younger women (I think they're called either silver foxes or panthers).  As previously stated, jury's still out, but they're leaning toward a negative verdict on the question.

I do believe that I still have fight left in me.  Now all's left is to fall back on my core competency, Creativity and helpful friends to assist me in the capture of that ever-elusive brass ring.  I believe I forgot to reflect on the fact that the ancestral Dutch Stubbornness of my youth has matured concomitantly with the rest of the X-cohort, into a doggedly determined, now undaunted, American Dutchman.  This is not the time to be like some Randian Atlas and simply shrug off my desires, duties and goals for some ignoble quiessence.  I do not ask, 'Who is John Galt?' As the Bard wrote, 'Once more unto the breach dear friends...' Id est, now is not the time to concede the fight.  No rest for the weary.  Like the Christmas song 'Baby it's Cold Outside' proclaims, 'At least I'm gonna say that I tried.'  And try, I will.

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