Every once in a while over the years I’d hear someone say senior citizens, like me for instance, were actually capable of experiencing romance, and, perish the thought, sex. I was tempted to tell these kind-minded folk that a visit to the doctor might be in order. They had, or so I thought, lost all touch with reality.

Well, this is not the first time, and no doubt will not be the last, when I am obliged to say, they were right and I was wrong. 

At age 67, I am proud to announce that me and my sex drive have actually become good friends. Yes, my sex drive and penchant for romance is still present and accounted for. But no longer is it the nagging, self-centered, overbearing, perpetually intrusive little twit it once was.

Its ability to interrupt and derail nearly any life activity you can name is second to none. Not anymore. No longer does it interrupt my reading, listening to music, meals, concerts, conversations, movies, plays, TV shows, homework, carnival and elevator rides, tax returns, phone calls. No longer does it interrupt my sleep, or distract from my writing. No longer do I have the overpowering appreciation for ice I once did.

My drive has become right-sized. It has manners. It is no longer, rude. 

I think skydiving would be immune to sex-drive interruptions; then again, if it did interrupt the dive, life would end with a bang.