I’ve just scrubbed my face with a mini loofah and slathered copious layers of lotion on my skin. I feel dried out, despite the 40 ounces of cream I’ve applied at $100 a pop. I mean dry -- as in my skin feels like it’s been lying dormant in a crypt since the beginning of the pharaoh age. I look in the mirror and I see bloodshot eyes with slate colored circles underneath, little webs of red lacy blood veins cover the apples of my cheeks, and tiny new wrinkles have been etched around my eyes with a mini chisel by efficient little Age Elves while I've slept.

“Moderation is for the bland, the apologetic, for the fence-sitters of the world afraid to take a stand. It's for those afraid to laugh or cry, for those afraid to live or die. Moderation...is lukewarm tea, the devil's own brew.” – Dan Millman

I used to believe this. Now, I’m not so sure. I’ve never practiced moderation and, for a time, I was proud of that fact. I would think of Millman’s words and revel in the fact that I was "truly living". But now I sit in my apartment when the skies are bright blue and folks are out there conversing with each other, taking walks, having sex, and I wonder if my lack of moderation is trying to tell me something else. 

I would not call myself a sports enthusiast. My limited participation involves cold Sunday afternoons when I turn on a football game so that I can take a nap. It’s a comfort thing. There’s usually roast beast simmering in a fruity Pinot Noir in the oven, flakes of snow tumbling down outside the window, and me curled up on the couch. I turn the volume down low and doze to the sounds of whistles and that same cadence of the commentator’s voice that I’ve been hearing for the past thirty-some years (with the exception of Howard Cosell, of course). 

Photo "Rebirth" Leslie Jackson