Aged Whine
Fifty’s not really that old…if you’re a sea turtle or a rock.
For a human being, though, it’s pushing it. Even if I do make it to 112, I’m still on the part of the ride that’s starting to swing me back home, that home being the mysterious void from whence we came.
Generally, I’m pretty sanguine about the prospects of aging; there’s much to look forward to: standing on the porch in a wife-beater t-shirt, madras plaid shorts, and sandals with socks, screaming at you punks to get the hell offa my property; taking in the early bird special at Olive Garden; not giving a shit anymore what anybody thinks about me or my particular level of personal hygiene.
But sometimes, I get a little freaked out about the inevitable decay and demise of my body and my faculties; in short, I’m not extremely afraid of dying, I just get nervous about everything leading up to it; death, I think I can deal with; it’s the decline that gives me the willies.
So, for instance, I’m sorta concerned about the increasing number of gray hairs on my arm of all places. My head? No big deal; I got my first gray hair there at age 25; (I know this because I saved it in a box for a few years, until I had so many it was no longer special). My chest? Yeah, well, those freaked me out at first, but now they’re so prevalent I’m used to it. But my forearm? Eek! That’s just a step away from gray pubes and at that point, you may as well just get the AARP card and move to Sun City, Arizona.
Of course, the baby boomers are redefining “old” just as they redefined extended adolescence; since I’m tailing along just behind them, I’ll get the Bee-Gees version of their Beatles, just like back in the day.
60 is their new 40; 50 can be my new 49.
For a human being, though, it’s pushing it. Even if I do make it to 112, I’m still on the part of the ride that’s starting to swing me back home, that home being the mysterious void from whence we came.
Generally, I’m pretty sanguine about the prospects of aging; there’s much to look forward to: standing on the porch in a wife-beater t-shirt, madras plaid shorts, and sandals with socks, screaming at you punks to get the hell offa my property; taking in the early bird special at Olive Garden; not giving a shit anymore what anybody thinks about me or my particular level of personal hygiene.
But sometimes, I get a little freaked out about the inevitable decay and demise of my body and my faculties; in short, I’m not extremely afraid of dying, I just get nervous about everything leading up to it; death, I think I can deal with; it’s the decline that gives me the willies.
So, for instance, I’m sorta concerned about the increasing number of gray hairs on my arm of all places. My head? No big deal; I got my first gray hair there at age 25; (I know this because I saved it in a box for a few years, until I had so many it was no longer special). My chest? Yeah, well, those freaked me out at first, but now they’re so prevalent I’m used to it. But my forearm? Eek! That’s just a step away from gray pubes and at that point, you may as well just get the AARP card and move to Sun City, Arizona.
Of course, the baby boomers are redefining “old” just as they redefined extended adolescence; since I’m tailing along just behind them, I’ll get the Bee-Gees version of their Beatles, just like back in the day.
60 is their new 40; 50 can be my new 49.
posted by Professor Dave at 2:09 PM
1 Comments:
Well, just one of those thoroughly enjoyable posts. Thanks for a good laugh and for making me feel...well, slightly lesser-aged.
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