The storm arrived with much fanfare last night. No thunder, but boy did it rain throughout the night.

In 18 years, I’ll be 80. When I was 18, I drove a motorcycle at 80 around the Greek island of Corfu and then ate way too many slices of watermelon soaked in ouzo. Now everything’s in slow motion – except time. That still flies.

The upside of getting older? I care more about saying what I actually think and less about sugarcoating my opinions.

Because nothing’s like it used to be – and maybe that’s the conundrum. We pretend it is, then get chagrined when it’s not. Maybe better to carve new paths than drag myself through old disappointing ones. Maybe.

Today it’s back to writing. Next up: a chapter about the ten years I spent in the restaurant business – an important part of my collection of brutally honest stories from my soon-to-be 62-year-old life.

Speaking of which, next week, coincidentally on my own birthday, I’ll participate in celebrating the passing of someone wonderfully full of life. This feels strangely fitting. A reminder to both live fully while you can and to always salute a life well lived.