(Age before beauty means me first)
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This week, I was granted yet another reminder that I am, as they say, “no spring chicken.” I’m not clear on the exact progression of fowl-based taxonomy, but I’m probably closer to a “late October bantam.”

I had had one of those “oh no” mornings in which you fixate on a grand breakfast but then realize that you’re out of a key ingredient, like butter, or milk, or nitrous oxide. (This is doubly frustrating for single guys, because when we discov...