There's your sign

Last night some friends invited me over for pizza. They were all giddy about the impending holiday and chattered about their Halloween decorations and costumes. That would obviate any need to identify their gender. Noting my lack of participation in the conversation, they asked what I thought. I told them the whole thing was inane and I dreaded sitting around for hours one night a year just to pass out candy to kids I didn’t know and wouldn’t see for another year. They said that was a sign I’ve turned into an old curmudgeon. I beg to differ. I cannot remember generating any excitement since hanging up my mask and bag. This morning I awoke and trudged to the bathroom to take care of first things first. As I stood there performing the rite, my half-closed eyes wandered over to the sink and snapped open. The Blob? An amorphic figure perched there and appeared to grow before my eyes. Was this my punishment for besmirching the spirit of Halloween? Buttoning back up (I sometimes remember), I cautiously moved closer to determine the source of this emanation. It was the base of a can of shaving cream. I carefully picked it up and discovered a pinhole leak. Now that is a sign. Since retiring, I seldom shave unless an occasion absolutely demands it. When your shaving cream can rusts through before it’s empty, you just may be getting old.