You May Ask Yourself...

Is this thing on?

Ahem.

Hi!

Remember me?

Sorry it's been so long.

So anyway. Here we are, and there are only hours left of being the answer, according to Douglas Adams in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, to Life, the Universe and Everything.

Hours left of 42.

Yes, the hours ticking away at 42, but not knowing why that's the answer.

A week ago I discovered the question, when I realized I only had a week left. (I was never a procrastinator until I reached middle age.)

That question is... How the bloody hell did I get to be 43?

• Subquestion: Wasn't I 40 only recently?
• For that matter, what happened to 35 - 39? 
• Actually, I'm not entirely sure what I did with 30 - 34, although I'm fairly certain I know what happened, at least, between 24 - 26. 
• Definitely 18 - 20. And 6 - 8. I know what happened there. 
• No one ever remembers 0 - 3, so in that I know I'm not alone. Those are the years that are just colors and shapes. In my case, probably really limpid colors and gaudy shapes. It was the 70s, after all. 

Yet here I am. 43 just round the bend, wondering where I've been all these years. 

Well, never mind that. Maybe I should stop wondering about what's happened, because the simple answer to that is A LOT, and start looking forward to what will. 

And for now, what is. 

Tonight is for me. My work is done. The humidity is clearing. The third longest day of the year is beginning to switch into twilight mode. I hear folks enjoying their garden dinner at the Lobo through the yard. There is a new bottle of Tanqueray Old Tom Gin waiting to be tasted, splashed into some tonic with lime and bitters. I have the dinner thing down too. Good pasta leftovers. 

Ok, 43, come and get me with those crazy little digits! 

Besides, I know I don't look it. 

I sure don't feel it. 

And that's what counts.