As always, I made my Christmas and New Year’s Eve calls and emails to old friends, and asked several of them two questions:
1.) What did you have for Christmas dinner?
2.) Are you staying up to see in 2022?
The answers were uniform: Everyone whom I asked about dinner gave the same answer: fish (almost everyone had salmon). This group comprised at least five people.
Also, NOBODY I know stayed up to see in the New Year. Dr. Cobb, who is a regular here, emailed me at 11:20 his time and said he was going to bed.
I should add that the friends I talked to are all within ten years of my age.
The conclusions are obvious. The older we get, the more we see food as medicine—or at least a way to extend our longevity as the Reaper draws near (I did not have salmon, but I did go to bed early last night.) Further, the older you get, the less you care about fairly meaningless events like the end of a year. We just can’t be bothered, and we’re tired.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.