Aging

On the gym front:  went Wednesday (11/13) and managed to clear up some misconceptions with my trainer about the New Routine.    It's not killing me as much as it was the first two times, so I'm hopeful that I'll start to see some kind of results soon -- I already feel like it's doing something with my metabolism, but that might simply be light-headedness from all the heavy breathing.

On the writing front:  It's going slowly.  I feel like I'm writing a lot of setting with little to no plot (or at least low stakes).   Insert regular "I need to be more disciplined" rant here.  A flash piece has been short-listed at one market, and about five weeks ago they said to wait a month.  I'm hoping that's good.

On the music front:  Helium Vola continues to be on my heavy rotation music list.  I should make a master list with them, Stary Olsa and maybe Enya.

The other day, Mark and I were talking about my age.  Mark seemed a little surprised that aging is vexing me.  Usually, it doesn't, mostly because I really don't dwell on it.  But when it does force its way to my forethoughts, it strikes me as odd that Star Wars: A New Hope came out over forty years ago;  that I've owned a lizard lapel pin sine 1991, which is eight years older than my student intern, and only something like two years older than the World Wide Web; and that I'm slightly older than my dad was when I was a senior in college.  And it's not possible for someone who is still thirty-five in his head to have memories (and own objects) that are over forty years old.

Mark said that it's his job to remind me of my age, and then proceeded to talk in his toothless-old-man voice.  About things like dentures.  And bowel movements.  I've repressed the precise content, but I do recall that I didn't appreciate it.  I guess I'll have to get him a intaglio Death with the motto "Momento Mori" for him to wear.