In 53 weeks I will be half a century old. My Forties have not been nearly as much fun as my oddly unsettled Thirties were. It daily feels as if I am getting old. This hurts, that hurts. Lame complaints, lame excuses, lame panics. I punched out of a damned MRI because I couldn’t handle 30 minutes of lying on back keeping still. What sort of hideous whiny crap is that? I used to be able to handle anything. I liked caves. I like small rooms. And I can’t handle 30 minutes of noisy, banging, goddamned magnets shooting at my crochety bits? What a loser. Oh well, it’s my first whack and getting old and I am flunking the test.