Things are different once you get old.
Everything hurts a little, and some things tend to hurt a lot. I consider myself in pretty good shape, but Father Time is gonna make sure I grind a gear now and then.
For example, if I say “I just smoked a joint,” what I mean is I tweaked my knee when I tried to stand up.
“What happened Scott? Why are you cursing and screaming?”
“Don’t mind me … I smoked a joint. Now I’m gonna try to claw my way back onto the futon. Just make sure the fire department and hospice are on standby.”
Aging also means that younger people, although well-meaning, can be patronizing. I get called darlin’ and honey a lot when I’m at restaurants. Not by other customers – that would be weird – but by the female waitstaff.
“Would you like another cup of coffee, darlin’?”
“Honey, are you sure you don’t want a dollop of butter with that baked potato?”
It doesn’t really bother me, I just don’t feel like a darlin’ or honey. I’m more of a Mean Motor Scooter.
First time a server tops off my water and calls me a Mean Motor Scooter, that standard tip is gonna get upgraded by at least a quarter.
And in a cruel twist, I no longer get carded when buying alcohol. I used to take it as a compliment when I’d get asked for my ID … it meant they thought I looked young. Now either nothing is said as the bottle is bagged or I hear things like, “What was it like before they invented liquor?”
And of course, doctor visits increase with age, which leads me to today’s column.
As I said, I’m fortunate in that I’m relatively healthy, but once you start carrying around a Medicare card it’s important to get various components of your engine checked frequently.
And trips to the doctor – whether it’s the general practitioner, urologist, dermatologist or witch – means hanging with the hoi polloi in waiting rooms.
This is not my favorite activity.
As my trips around the sun keep adding up, my patience tends to wear thin with inconsiderate humanoids.
Recently, I went in for my annual physical. The appointment was at 9 a.m. but I was checked in by 8:15; sometimes if I get there early, I’m taken back early.
This was a bad idea.
Two seats down a patient was playing a game on his phone, and he was sure that the rest of us wanted to hear it.
I don’t know what the game was, but the sound effects can be best described as bean farts followed by a high-pitched voice shouting “WOW!” a lot.
Fortunately for our game player, he was called back before I could assault him.
Then there was Dwayne. I know his name is Dwayne because he was on speakerphone with his wife.
Her name’s Tess.
“Did you make it there OK, Dwayne?
“Sure did, Tess. Had to park on the sixth level. Then I took the elevator down to the second level where they have the skywalk. Then I had to walk what seemed like a mile to get to another elevator so I could go up to four. I had to stop and pee first, though.”
“You want fish?”
“What?”
“You want fish for supper?”
“What kind of fish?”
“The kind of fish you eat.”
“I reckon.”
“You want bacon?”
“No, I said I RECKON.”
“Oh, I thought you said bacon.”
“Look, I’m gonna go … there’s a fellow coming at me with an aluminum bat.”
That last part didn’t happen but only because I left the bat in my car.
And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the people who don’t know how to carry on quiet conversations about sensitive topics.
I think I speak for everyone in the waiting room when I say we have no interest in your visit to the proctologist. The only times I want to hear the words “rectum” and anus” are in a limerick.
I used to be able to ignore such things, but then again, I didn’t spend as much time in waiting rooms back in the day when I was a whipper-snapper.
So, going forward, I need to figure out some way to deal with this. I have earbuds, but I’m afraid if I use them, I’ll miss hearing my name called.
I also have a shovel, but if I bring it with me and start bashing folks in the side of the face, the police might get involved.
Actually, I should try to be a better person. Even those who say “anus” and “rectum” aloud are fighting battles I know nothing about.
Perhaps if I took the time to listen to these folks, who knows?
Maybe I’d become friends with them.
Not Dwayne, though. His house probably smells like fish.
