October 31 2008 by
Big Frick in
aging |
This getting old stuff is for the birds. The problem is that the only other option is worse.
It’s not like I have become some tottering old man who craps his pants, well, it’s not like I have become some tottering old man anyway. I have come to the conclusion that aging gracefully is for someone who was graceful to begin with. I have not only been about the most ungraceful human on the planet, throughout the course of my existence I have taken it to levels never before achieved.
But even accepting that fact, stuff is already happening to me that I don’t like. I don’t like the fact that pretty young women are more than willing to take an empty seat next to me.
When I was younger, pretty girls would have rather stood on hot coals than take a seat at my side. They looked at me with a cautious stare as if they recognized me as the guy from all those stories their mothers had warned them about. Perhaps it was that they were a little intimidated by a man who was the size of an NFL defensive lineman with hands like canned hams. Or maybe they mistook the rapid breathing and low rumbling wheeze I have acquired after years of sucking Marlboro reds as something else. Either way it wasn’t happening. If it wasn’t assigned seating and the seat next to me wasn’t occupied by another guy it was a woman in her nineties or a woman in comfortable shoes that figured she could take me in a fight if need be. But that is not the case today. And it seemed to happen all at once. I was in an airport waiting area, sitting drinking my coffee and reading the paper when a gorgeous young lady in skin tight pants and a low cut top shimmied her way into the seat next to me, smiled and said “Hi, is this seat open?” “What great luck” I thought “Yea, the old Frickmeister’s still got it”. But then it dawned on me, “Holy shit! She is looking at me like I am completely harmless.” Oh the humanity. Oh the pain when I realized that she couldn’t be more right.
I don’t like that when it comes to my body, things either hurt or they don’t work. I feel like I should be walking around with a basket just to pick up the stuff that falls off. I had a friend tell me once that I had lived about 3 normal lives in my one body and I should be grateful I can stand up at all. While I can’t argue the logic, or the validity of the statement, it’s a point I never thought I would come to. I’m considering getting my first tattoo which would be of the old adage “If I knew I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself.” I buy stuff to put in my hair to take the white out and stuff to put on my teeth to put it back on. While I still don’t look at food labels for the amount of calories or fat, I do check to see the grams of fiber. I can tell you where the Tylenol is located in every drug store within a 20 mile radius of my house and the pharmacist at the local Walgreens knows me by my first name. I go sauntering back to the pharmacy counter in a scene reminiscent of the TV show “Cheers” where everybody would yell “Norm!” every time he walked in. Maybe you don’t always want to go where everybody knows your name. Better living through chemistry used to have a completely different meaning for me then it does today.
I do try to take better care of myself. I don’t drink and I rarely smoke in the shower anymore. I try to get some exercise although when your job consists of sitting on your ass, either in a car or at a desk, you have to be somewhat creative. That’s why I make it a point to take as many strokes as humanly possible before I get back in the cart every Saturday when I play golf. It’s not that I don’t want to exercise; it’s just that I hate it and will avoid it like a prostate exam. If I want to get sweaty and short of breath I’ll call one of my ex-wives attorneys.
I also don’t like that I am developing an old man mentality. I don’t know the genesis of the word curmudgeon but I’m beginning to better understand the definition. I haven’t said “Those darn kids with their damn loud music” but I do think it every time a kid pulls up next to me in a car that is shaking from some base driven rap song about bustin’ caps in peoples asses and runnin’ from the po-lease. For God sake, if you’re going to play music that loud at least make it “Mississippi Queen” or “White Room”. I do know how to text message like the young folks today, but I have no idea why I would want to. I don’t understand the cryptic lingo and can’t find a good reason to fumble my thumbs around the cell phone for 5 minutes to write something that would take about 2.4 seconds to say. And could somebody please tell me what the hell is so attractive about that little boy named Paris Hilton?
I’m just an old world guy in a brave new world and I don’t like it. What scares me the most is that I now understand all the things the old folks said to me when I was young. I not only understand them, I agree with them. Things they told me like, “You can do anything you want now-a-days, you don’t need talent anymore.” All the major young celebrities seem like cheap imitations of the stars of my youth. The ridiculous tripe on NBC, CBS and ABC is enough to actually suck IQ points right out of your head. Is it not possible anymore to have a comedic situation that doesn’t involve sex or genitalia? And most of the music wouldn’t have rated a 2 on Bandstand.
While I have accepted the fact that I will not age gracefully I am also resolute that I will not age willingly either. Every year that passes is going to have to drag me, screaming and kicking like Barney Frank on a bad hair day. I will continue to try to hit the high notes in every Four Season’s song that comes on my satellite radio 60’s station. I will continue to say “Groovy” whenever anybody asks how I’m doing. And the next time a pretty young girl sits down next to me I will resist the temptation to open the conversation with “Ya wanna see pictures of my grandkids?”
