AGING GRACEFULLY


AGING GRACEFULLY
It always feels like I was a kid moments ago which is actually true. These are the times I wish I had the non-existent time machine. I could turn back the clocks of time and re-live my childish and teenage years which sometimes seem as if they were much better and enjoyable.
It is just in the recent past that I wished to get out of my parents home and acquire my own pad. It seemed so cool back then. Now that I have it, what have I gained, responsibility, bills, furious landlord at the end of month and a stream of problems which don’t seem to cease. Not to be forgotten is cooking and washing. As much as I have to do them, I never have time for them and I am always running late. Picture this; I get in to the pad at around eight in the evening [Monday to Thursday] I spent time fiddling with the key board attacked by a massive writers block. I also listen to rock in the mean time. Now that I don’t have a T.V I have to content with that and hope my eyes never get bored of staring my old refurbished laptop. The dreams of upgrading it have been so persistent and for a long time that they are no longer dreams but nightmares. I realize that I am hungry at 10: 30. The next 30 minutes are spent figuring out what to cook and how to do it. When I finally figure out what to cook, any self respecting neighbor is curled up nicely between the sheets. Then the most scary part, cooking. Rather than go there let’s just say I miss mum’s cooking. Period!
 The next nightmare goes by the nick name washing. It is a great thing but only when done by another person, preferably a dry cleaner. It gives my clothes a glossy look and a good scent. The down side is that I fear doing it as much as I loathe a visit to the dentist. I only do it when I realize failure to do it will make me walk naked. It is in this that I give my heartfelt gratitude to Levi Strauss. He invented the piece of clothing called jeans which when black in color cleans itself depending on the amount of time you leave it untouched in a dirty pile. Consequentially I have numerous black jeans; they also get better with age like wine.
Now that I am responsible for myself (without forgetting to add prefix irr- on the word) things have been falling apart at an appalling rate. Back then I always dreamt of this freedom and now that I have it, it doesn’t seem so cool. Talk of Murphy’s Law.
I do not have to sneak out of the house and go clubbing, my legs do that for me. Nobody will ask me the time I leave or arrive at my humble abode.  I am out night running every weekend which is a disastrous activity for my wallet. Of late brokenness and my name have become synonymous, many a times they appear in the same sentence and it is not cool. I attribute all this to clubbing.
Bouncers no longer block my path at the entrance, a few months back it seemed as if something was amiss if they did not. Now I wish they continue blocking me and asking me for a bribe.  If they do that, it is pretty much easy to turn back and go to the house while blaming them for peeing on my drink.
Night running is also not healthy and any clinical quark worth the name will tell you so. Beer has ten reasons why it is better than milk but milk has more than hundred reasons why it is better than beer. The down side is that nobody will bother to know why milk is better than beer. I overheard interesting facts from the morning radio which subscribes to the two main Kenyan languages, vulgarity and sexism. Apparently married women who worship the devils bottle have a higher chance of having a divorce than men. I have included this on my list of why beer is better than milk to men. Drink milk from mpango wa kando, if you are a man, risk a divorce. Drink beer, save your marriage. Aging includes marriage and am not eons from there.
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