Symptoms of Getting Old

I joke often about getting old, and sometimes it's because I'm achy bending down to get something, or because my neck and shoulder may hurt for days after sleeping funny. I'm generally not a knee-jerk "things were better back in my day" kind of guy. Many things are better today.

What I'm talking about here today is how things that used to matter, used to get a person riled up, or anger up the blood, or, eh, activate the unending sense of injustice or derision, those things? I just don't have any energy to even consider them anymore. I don't care anymore. 

Like my new car. Norm and I used to clown Hondas, and/or people who drive them. If you told that version of me that one day I would buy a 2020 Honda, I would have believed it, but would have asked for context. (You still want to drive stick-shifts, and those are very hard to find, so when you find a great a deal in the future, you are forced to take it because of the aforementioned circumstances.)

Or my Birkenstocks. During the first few months of the pandemic I ordered a pair of Birkenstock sandals. I wanted the Monterrey, but it was discontinued, so I settled on the Arizonas. They are very similar to each other, and both resemble the normal, hippie-looking two-strapper. Because I didn't need to wear socks for anything, I didn't...for months and months. Eventually I wore them out and destroyed them like I always do (through the sole and the cork middle---thanks faulty back!) and eventually one exploded as I forded Mill Creek on our Cabin trip. It nearly slid off my foot and away with the stiff current, but somehow my foot hooked itself inside.

I had planned on trashing them once we returned to Long Beach, but on that day I had to walk back to the car with only one sandal, and trash them before we left the mountains.

Anyway, back in 2020, when I bought the sandals, I had to choose between the classic cork/leather and the weird foamy-plastic version:

Duh. No decision at all. There's no way I would ever buy the foamy plastic facsimile.

Three years later and I'm done wearing socks for a quick trip to get milk and eggs, or beer, and Corrie says, "Just buy a new pair of Birks already." I go online and now, I'm looking at the choices, and I realize I don't really care anymore.

I do want to be able to wear them in water. It would be nice to go to the beach and not freak out because sand got in them and would stay for days. The price point now kinda does interest me.

So I got the weird, plastic foamy Birks. And I love them! I admit it! They're so comfortable and light. It's like I'm wearing weightless cushions. I'm not even concerned about sweaty foot issues because it would be impossible to be worse than regular Birks for me! If you know me and my Birkenstock habit over the decades, then you know what I mean. At least these sandals I could rinse off in the sink or tub.

Wait...because I care less about somethings and more about others (the quality of local elementary schools; the quality of the olive oil I buy) means I'm getting old? 

I guess forgetting my thesis means I am getting old...