When you’re twenty five, the focus is all on looks.  Your look.  Their look.  The in look.  The expired look.

Then you hit your forties, a little less on the looks, a little more about the intelligence and/or humor factor.

So why when the sixties roll around are we digressing and revisiting the looks thing?

Especially when all the standards are either in flux or completely fluxed over the finish line?

Losing hair, from thinning follicles to full out cue ball.  Hair growth in the most undesirable places?

The turkey neck.  The rough elbows.  Arthritic and veiny looking hands.  The old man flat ass. The persistent belly.

Any of these?  Some of these?  ALL OF THESE?  Game over for you.  Read a lot and become irresistibly interesting.

Baby you can do it, take your time do it right.  You can do it baby.  Do it tonight.  Or maybe just be on call for next week.

What you wear gets tough.  Do you frump out in sweats and a stretchy schmata?  Do you dare to show skin?

And this is not a negotiable process.  You either fight the process or throw in the towel and grab the Metamucil.

At some point, the stubborn ones still clutching onto what’s left of their teenage charisma just look silly, possibly even older than they are.

An eighty year old in a speedo?  Oh pahleez.  

Reconsider.  

Drying out what’s left of your skin’s elasticity ain’t good.

I’m sixty four and kinda on the fence.  

I’m small framed so I still got that frail vulnerability thing.

An occasional Botox spruce up but that only goes so far. 

But then I open my mouth.

My main source of information is CNN and the New York Times.  

I don’t know who Shakira is.  

If I bring up the Gaza Strip, people scatter like cockroaches.

There’s no answer.  You can only walk that tight rope for so long.  

You either fall to the left or the right.  Just don’t break a hip.