To living happily ever after.

Don’t feel old. Unless told that I’m old. By letting others define me. Usually, younger people. They see me as old, I guess. In physical appearance, I assume. Having gray hair. Thank gawd, it’s still a full head of hair. Seems to me that bald men look older. As for my looks, maybe wiser. Educated. Intelligent. That’s a plus. I’m fully capable of acting stupid. Though maybe it isn’t always an act. The real thing. Pure stupidity. Often reminded I’m older by the way people address me. Sometimes, with lack of respect. ‘Old man.’ Or ‘grandpa’ when I ain’t their grandpa.  But then there are the respectful. Mr. Broede. Sir. But I insist on being called Jim. By everyone. Old and young alike.  Rather not see differentiation in salutation because of age.  If I were a college professor or a doctor, I’d still insist on being addressed informally, as just plain Jim. Though I wouldn’t mind being called Giacomo in Italy or Vaclav in Slavic countries. Their names for James/Jim. I don’t go by James. Though that’s my real name. I’m even listed as Jim in the telephone directory. And whenever I write, my byline is Jim. My mother’s first instinct was to name me Bruce. She liked the alliteration. Bruce Broede. Instead, she opted naming the first born after my maternal grandfather. And my brother became Bruce. My middle name is Bruce. So I have the option to go with J. Bruce Broede. But hey, I’m used to Jim. I like it. And don’t want to be mistaken for my brother. Especially since he’s dead. Anyway, gotta confess. It’s nice surviving long enough to be considered old. Beats the alternative. Especially for a guy wanting to live happily ever after. –Jim Broede