I never minded getting older. In fact, when I was younger, much younger, getting older was pretty much my first priority. My brother was older, and as far as I could tell, he was having all the fun. He had lots of really cool friends, and I had a few that were not so much. He went on dates with girls, and I went to Junior Achievement and the Boy Scouts. He was pretty much a chick magnet, and I was pretty much invisible to any girl worthy of chick status. And worst of all, he drove a car and I rode a bicycle (his hand-me-down bicycle, I might add). Of course, having a license didn’t mean I would be able to get a date, and being older wouldn’t automatically make me any more popular in general, but at the time I took comfort in pretending it would.
Today I am much older, and I would like to think, much wiser: wise enough, in fact, to realize that getting older is neither the solution, nor the problem. The problem is that I’m getting OLD. I’m not exactly sure when it started; I think I first noticed it when one day after working in the yard and then relaxing in my Lazy Boy for a couple hours, I got up feeling not so much relaxed and rested as stiff and sore. Soon after, or perhaps before, I can’t remember for sure, I also noticed that peeing was more and more becoming a case of less and less, but more and more often. And I can’t remember for sure but it was somewhere around that time, that remembering for sure (or at all) was also more and more becoming less and less. I’m pretty sure that it was about that time that I discovered that my memory was still pretty good around any events that happened in the previous 30 seconds, or more than 30 years ago. But the interval between had become increasingly fuzzy. I believe it’s called the 30/30 syndrome, but I may have made that up. I can’t remember.
I remember that it was about then that my hair and mustache started going gray. It was soon after that I decided to grow a beard to cover my jowls, which had started to droop decidedly, a sure sign of getting old. The beard came in less gray, but definitely not the dirty blond of my youth. Today I’m pretty much a dirty white all over, but my wife (the love of my life) refers to it as a “distinguished silver gray.” Honestly, I don’t mind the color of my hair so much, as the increasing lack of it. My receding hairline (a sure sign of intelligence, according to that same wife) is making a beeline towards the ever-increasing baldness of my pate. When the two meet, it may be time for a “distinguished silver gray” combover; or perhaps a “distinguished silver gray” baseball cap, which I can wear turned around backwards, so I don’t look so old.
Speaking of peeing, which I was earlier in case you are getting old and can’t remember; sitting on the john is now a case of more and more, longer and longer; which wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, assuming that scheduling isn’t an issue, which it seldom is because there is nothing to schedule, because the economy is so bad that there is no money to go anywhere…but I digress. It wouldn’t necessarily be a problem because it provides an excellent time to catch up on my book reading, or magazine browsing, or app searching for my new smart phone, which I really love, and I don’t know how I ever got along without…but I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, it’s a problem because when I sit on the john for long periods, my legs fall completely asleep. Which means when I get up, or more accurately attempt to get up, I nearly fall down, which I haven’t yet, but if I did, I would probably break a hip and need a hip replacement, which means I would, officially and undeniably, be old.
In truth, I’ve been old for a while now. I must admit, however, that even though I am, getting older is still pretty much my first priority.
03/15/11
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