Since I work graveyard shift, I tend to eat very strange things for breakfast. I get off work at 8 am craving hamburgers, and after eating them, I go to bed for the day. Recently I found this fantastic 24 hour fried chicken place on my route home from work. The only problem is that after I eat this delicious treat, I invariably wake up with a case of indigestion that’s so severe I feel like ripping out my clavicle and beating myself to death with it.
So I have a new rule. No more fried chicken for breakfast.
Don’t we all accumulate these highly personal rules as we age? No ice skating. You could fall and re-herniate that disc. No more bikinis. That goes without saying. Make one more bad investment at your peril. Don’t ask Aunt Mabel for a childhood story unless you’ve got several hours to spare.
To a certain extent, these rules are necessary for our survival, physically, financially, socially or emotionally. But how rigid is the box that we’re putting ourselves in? And how many of these regulations have been so much a part of our day to day lives that we don’t even realize we’re operating under their restrictions?
From now on, I’ll think very carefully before adding to my list of rules. Oh, wait. That’s a rule…
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The View from a Drawbridge 
There should be an age limit on trampy clothes. I don’t so much make new rules as figure out what makes me feel like crap and try to stop doing it.
That’s very wise.
Nobody fakes wise like I do.