It seems as I age the things that make me happy are becoming simple, almost jejune.  A few weeks ago a pharmaceutical representative gave me a small rubber-tipped pen, suitable for punching  apps on the iphone. My bulky fingers are clumsy blunt instruments to open/close things on a phone’s surface. Now I can poke buttons with ease; I am thrilled. It makes me recall this comic of a smiling woman playing with two pencils:


I suppose it isn’t a bad thing to become thrilled over life’s simple things like a nice cup of tea or a clean kitchen surface.  However, there is a sensation of incipient implosion.  I fear I am one step away from becoming one of the old guys in nursing homes who wax rhapsodic over a bowl of prunes.  “And what makes you excited?” someone might ask me in a bar at happy hour.  “Oh, tidying up small messes around the house” (rather than “skydiving” or “weekend jaunts in Palm Springs”) doesn’t exactly convey me as Mr. Personality.**

Perhaps I need to spice things up in my life.  Time to get in touch with my inner-Auntie Mame before I become too Babbitt-like.  On the other hand, my way is a lot less costly, and I daresay less hazardous.

It is another example of how being boring can save your life.


** That’s Dr. Personality by the way.