THE NEW YEAR APPROACHES and I yawn. It is purely an artificial threshold. Its only significance for me is that it moves us closer to the next catastrophe, or marvel, that’s coming down the pike. Whatever 2023 has in store for us is going to happen, whether we want it to or not. It is what it is, my spouse reminds me, especially if she hears me bemoaning some inexplicable event. I’ve learned over the years not to get too enthused over the prospect of my favorite team winning, or an abhorred candidate losing. It is what it is. There’s simply no point in losing sleep over things that you can’t control. It seems that each day presents us with yet another incident that doesn’t make sense, that strains credulity, that runs a totally absurd flag up the pole and asks us to salute it. There’s no more right and wrong, just sense and nonsense. It is for this reason that I am more convinced than ever that I survive each day, not on my medications, not on my doctor’s medical guidance, not on my genes or my brains or my luck, but on my most redeeming and salvaging trait: my sense of humor. Illegitimi non carborundum.
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