I have developed a little bit of a hiatus paunch thanks to my diet consisting almost solely of Belgian ale, baby back ribs, coconut water, salmon sashimi, and fries.
And I like wearing crocs because they're really comfortable.
I'm completely aware of these facts, and yet, I'm as content with my life as I've ever been. In fact, it's my very contentment in the face of these facts that's a main cause of my contentment overall.
Here I am staring headlong into the business end of eventual middle age, and I don't give a fuck. And why should I? Subtle male deterioration is not only societally accepted but valued.
It makes me realize death isn't going to be nearly as bad as I sometimes fear. I can picture myself in my late seventies. Approaching my last few days. I'll be comforted by the fact that even though I'm about to face that eternal abyss, I don't really care, because fuck, our brains are wired to not really care lest we all go completely apeshit, and that casual not-caring might just attract the twentysomething Latina nurse taking care of my broke-down ass. Plus, I'll be too preoccupied worrying about how I told my son that I "shopped around for the most economical, but at the same time comfortable" hospice care available, when in reality I chose the most convenient, luxurious, exorbitant, fucking delightful practically spa-like end-of-life care I could find.