Sometimes I feel that the older I get, the more childlike I get.

I don’t mean the innocent toddler version — more like the carefree high school teenager. The one who doesn’t quite do everything they’re supposed to do. The ones who’d rather play and talk to their friends than do anything coherent like Math or chores.

I have the same amount of responsibility I had when I was young — not so much as a teenager, but as a young adult. Rent, groceries, bills — responsibility out the gazoo.

I then got married and had children, settled down and played the part of mother and wife and employee. I think I did fairly well.

Now that I’m way past my 20s and 30s I feel like being irresponsible again.

Being irresponsible is different for everyone. For some it’s meat on Friday or splurging on Ferrero Rocher candies. Sometimes it’s watching B horror movies or blasting rock and roll on a Wednesday night.

Now that I’m 73 I’m trying to fit into the hole of “Who’s going to care anyway?”

As long as I don’t set the house on fire or accidentally dial 9-1-1, what does it matter if I have pancakes for dinner or eat fruit out of the can? Does it matter if I watch Hellraiser or Downton Abbey? Does it matter if I have an extra glass of wine or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before I go to bed?

All my life I’ve followed the rules. Got to work on time, didn’t do drugs, took my kids to church. Raised my boys. That turned into spending time with Grandkids.

Now that I’m in my last third of life on this plane I feel I deserve to go with my mental flow. Even if the mental flow is zigzaggy a lot of the time.

I enjoy reading about lucid dreaming and watching shows on ancient Romans and taking ashwagandha. I like having a glass of Baileys at 3:00 and not have to worry about driving home or taking care of my children. I love watching film-noir black and whites and jamming to Motley Crue. I love making culinary concoctions only I enjoy, and coloring mandalas that make me dizzy.

I suppose I’ve always been this wild and restless fae all my life — it’s only now that I can live that life without a lot of second guessing.

Is this a prelude to Alzheimer’s? Of senility? And is there anything wrong with that?

I hope that if living a crooked life paves my way to a positive dream world on my way out, I’ve lived a good life.

And had a good imagination.

How about you? What semi-wild things are you embracing these days?