Self at Forty Seven
I think my face is a pretty accurate mirror of my soul. Like Orwell said, at fifty every man has the face he deserves. Not quite there yet, but it's true enough already.
Pretty awesome birthday week. Had range training on wednesday, got up before dawn yesterday and today to serve warrants on some shitholes out in BFE. Yay, shooting! Yay, pointing guns! Yay, predawn raids!
I know, I know.
I should be over that shit already.
I can't help myself, though.
I'm not one of those people who dread growing older. I embrace it. I wouldn't go back if you paid me. The aches and pains and slowing down, the deafness and the ringing in my ears, the sleepless nights, the failing eyes, they're all worth it.
We earn that shit, man.
I got nothing profound to say today. I'm going to get in some meditation and some restorative yoga goodness, and eat dinner with my beautiful and amazing wife, and then lay on the sofa and watch some streaming netflix goodness.
Maybe she'll let me watch one of those PBS Nova shows, or some shit about neanderthals.
Or something about killing.