The Gray Haired Truth

I opened the freezer, took out a battered gallon of Blue Bell Ultimate Neapolitan Ice Cream and tossed the lid away. There wasn't a lot of ice cream in the carton. I'm not crazy, not going to eat a half gallon of ice cream. The carton had a few spoonfuls more than a reasonable person would eat. I'm shoving the extra spoonfuls in because I'm in a semi-reasonable state. I went to the DMV to renew my driver's license. I went there with the correct expectations - the worst. Turning 50 in December, I needed to get a new license with a new photo. I've some wisdom and wisdom dictates wear comfy shoes because I'm going to be standing on an ugly line. Things went well – smooth and quick. No problems. Wow, wonders. No big wonder, however, my new driver's license photo sucked. The photos get worse every time. It's not them, it's me – 50 soon. I'm not overly unhappy about it, not happy either. It's coming, in December, 50 is coming for me. I'm not feeling it. Not feeling much of anything besides a nagging desire to do something special – quick. So, eating the ice cream I'm thinking about what to do with my life – the deep stuff – a thinking pattern which rapidly gets distracted with the question of why am I eating the ice cream with the lid tossed away. The answer is vanity. At the DMV, I had to check off my hair color. I wasn't sure. I asked the clerk, “what do I check off, brown, gray, bald, what?” She paused and with an expression of compassion I've never seen on a government official said, “I would say gray.” It was the truth and the truth can only be stated once. I'm 50 in December.