Here we go again, folks. Another New Year has lumbered onto the calendar like a drunk uncle at Thanksgiving, and this one comes with a shiny new label: 2026. If I make it all the way through, it’ll mark my 88th spin around the sun. Eighty-eight years on planet Earth. That number sounds ancient when you say it out loud, like I should be carved into a monument somewhere, preferably with a bench so people can sit and complain.

And yet—and this may shock the youth brigade—I don’t feel all that terrible. Not great, mind you, but not terrible either. Nobody really feels their age. You feel tired, or stiff, or cranky, or sore, but you don’t wake up thinking, “Ah yes, today I feel precisely 87.6 years old.” Age sneaks up on you quietly, then smacks you with a bill you didn’t know you owed.

All things considered, 2025 treated me reasonably well. I stayed upright. I stayed alive. That alone puts it in the “successful year” column. I did have the misfortune of picking up C. diff thanks to some overconfident medical wannabe at the VA who decided I needed heavy-duty antibiotics for an inner ear infection that apparently existed only in his imagination. Bravo, doctor. Gold star for creativity.

But I’ve forgiven him—or her, or whatever pronoun incompetence prefers these days—because I’m trying to be a Christian man. That doesn’t mean I’m thrilled about it. It means I’ve unclenched my fist and moved on. According to the statistics and the endless parade of medical gobbledygook, I’m recovering nicely. Time, as always, will have the final vote.

Meanwhile, I still have a roof over my head, which is more than I can say for some folks after the government finishes “helping.” There’s food in the refrigerator. Not gourmet, not artisanal, not blessed by a celebrity chef—but food. We can afford the basics, which is more than enough.

Sure, we’ve had to cut back on those lavish Michelin four-star dinners and our routine cruises to the Bahamas aboard gleaming floating palaces. You know, the stuff we never actually did in the first place and absolutely do not miss. Funny how you don’t mourn the loss of luxuries you never had.

And since I’m Caucasian and born right here in the good old USA, I haven’t been groped by any government agents yet. If that day ever comes—and in this climate, who knows—I hope it’s a full strip search and that the groper is at least halfway attractive. At my age, standards are flexible. Desperation has a way of sanding down your pickiness.

So what’s the plan for 2026? World domination is off the table—it sounds exhausting. Mostly, I’m aiming to be more obedient to God. Yes, I know that will irritate some unbelievers. Relax. I have plenty of friends who don’t believe in God, and I love them just fine. God does too, whether they like it or not. Belief isn’t a club with a bouncer; it’s an invitation. You can RSVP or ignore it.

My real goal is simpler: enjoy every single hour I’m given, using whatever tools and scraps of joy I have left. I’m under no illusions about my timeline. I know my time is short. When I was sixteen, I was convinced death was something that happened to other people—old people, careless people, unlucky people. I figured I was immortal. That fantasy lasted until my seventies, when wisdom arrived like a brick through a window.

Still, I’m here. I’m breathing. I’m writing. That counts for something.

I’ll admit it: I’m nervous about this year. I look at what’s happening in Washington, D.C., and my gut tells me it’s going to get worse before it gets better—maybe a lot worse. Then again, I’ve always had a paranoid streak. Some people collect stamps; I collect worst-case scenarios.

So my attitude is this: let the dice roll and see where they land. I’ve survived wars, recessions, bad presidents, worse presidents, and medical professionals who should’ve stuck to selling used cars. I’ll take 2026 one hour at a time.

To anyone reading this: Happy New Year. I hope 2026 treats you kindly—or at least fairly. And if it doesn’t, I hope you’re stubborn enough to keep going anyway.