How to do the wrong thing right You say you won’t do it. You say you’d rather grow old gracefully, that you don’t mind looking your age — just so long as it’s at the best you can be.
Yeah, you say all that mind-fuckery — so condescendingly, too, still on the sunny side of 50 — only to flick on the bathroom light’s reflection from your mirror one morning, and scream, “Intruder!” Alas, your dear Howard here knows of what Penny Dreadful scenario he speaks; I just turned 59.
Nobody ever believes one’s age on the years it ends in 9; it’s simply presumed you’re lying by understating. So I’m just skipping it over altogether and instead gunning 60.