What saves you is the moment goes on forever:
You wake up. You plug in your phone. You feed the cats. You make coffee. You give senile cat water cause he’s staring at it. You give the other cats their milk-like cat beverage. You bring your wife her coffee. You eat breakfast. You move your car so your wife can get out of the driveway. You take a shower. You get dressed. You remember your hearing aids and put them in. You clean your glasses. You remember the litter boxes, you clean them. You gather and throw away the mylar envelopes the cat food came in. You open all the blinds in the house.
Then, standing in the middle of your bedroom, bam!
It hits you.
You’re an old guy.
You’re an old guy in a suit, and you always have been, because this moment goes on forever.
No feeling of, How did I come to be an old guy?
You just fucking are!
Always have been!
And one more thing:
You’re a happy old guy!
You dance a little, a happy dance.
Old, musical-style dancing.
You dance through your bedroom you dance down the hall.
Have to be careful on the stairs because the cats are still bent on tripping you.
You dance through the living room, the music is sublime.
You drive among maniacs and morons to your stupid job, or maybe it’s a good job, what do I know, it’s your job. You drive there, you work, you eat lunch and walk around sticking to new streets where the crows don’t know you yet, kicking through leaves on the sidewalk.
But the moment with the dancing is still going on and you’re grateful for that and that’s only one of many things you’re grateful for.
Pile on the grief and frustration and humiliation, life, you think, I’m a dancer.

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