You’re out there, are ya? You know, it’s not so easy to look at you. ’Cause when I’m looking at you, I know you’re looking at me. And I know you don’t want to see me. Come on, don’t deny it. Let’s not have any of that polite crap. You don’t want to see me because I am ugly. Old and ugly.
You know, the other day, this fellow, he comes along and he starts up a conversation with me. And he says, “What’s it like getting older?”
“Older?” I said. “Older than what? What makes you think I know anything more about it than you do, dummy? You’ve been doing it since you were born.
“Think. Since I started talking to you we have aged exactly the same amount, right? Right? Let me hear it, am I right or wrong? Right. It doesn’t take a mathematical genius to figure that one out. So . . . how does it feel getting older?”
Think. Most folks imagine they’re getting smarter as they ripen. Then comes this mysterious moment, and all of a sudden the fruit is rotten. Folks expect you to smell bad, piss in your pants or forget to button your bra. How come? How come? How many gray hairs do you need to slip out of the human race? How many wrinkles can you get away with before folks start talking slow, loud and stupid at you?
You know, if most of you passed me on the street, you would either not see me or you would turn away if you did. Do you know why? Do you know why you don’t want to see me? ’Cause I look like graves. I am bending down, back to the Earth, getting ready for reentry. Well, you see me, and you say, “Won’t be long now, she’s going to drop dead. Lucky she’s too dumb to feel bad about that. Lucky that’s not me. Lucky I’m taking my vitamins.”
I’ll tell you what. I’ll tell you what. You put a picture of me on your mirror, on your refrigerator door and on your checkbook, and I guarantee you a spiritual awakening in less than a month. Study me, study me, ’cause I’m studying you.
You know, if you weren’t so afraid of me, you could die laughing. You’re going to die anyway, you know. You might as well get a chuckle or two.