Category: Funny Business

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.

High school was a long time ago for me, so many of the things that happened during those four years have faded from memory.

I still recall scoring my first goal in a soccer match (left-footed, no less … meaning it was an accident), losing my one and only after school fight (pugilism was never my strong suit, nor was being particularly strong), and renting a gray tuxedo for my senior prom (I guess I wanted to look like David Byrne from Talking Heads. Psycho Killer was a song that reallyspoke to me).

What stands out more than anything, though, was learning to be an ACE driver.

Yep, as part of my school’s drivers education program, we had to watch an old 1960s-era film about safe driving. The spokesperson, if I remember correctly, was Junior Miss Teen America USA Ingénue (or something along those lines), and she urged me to be an ACE driver – alert, courteous and educated.

And you know what?

Junior Miss Teen America USA Ingénue (or something along those lines) had a huge impact on my life, because I never forgot that acronym and the lessons that it taught. It has been my mantra ever since I got behind the wheel of my dad’s 1972 Gran Torino and thought, “Man, I hope Clint Eastwood makes a movie about this car in 2008.”

Alert? Darn tootin I’m alert … I’m “six cups of Italian Roast coffee and half a box of Vivarin plus I think I just saw a snake” alert when I’m driving.

I’m constantly watching for kids playing in the street, animals walking in the street, naked old people wandering onto the street, and super-smart monkeys who’ve escaped from a lab and join the kids, animals and naked old people on the street in an effort to give rise to a planet of the apes.

Courteous?

That’s me, baby. To a fault.

If I see you creeping up to a four-way stop, I’ll creep even slower because I’m a giver and I want you to be first and go first. And if we get to our stop sign destinations at the same time, I’ll wave you through.

And if you’re courteous, you might, in turn, try to wave me through.

But then I’ll frantically wave you through again and in an effort to avoid conflict and further eye contact, shift into reverse and start driving backwards, hoping there are no kids, critters, nude oldsters and talking apes back there.

Educated?

Absolutely. I even made the dean’s list a couple of times in college (although, admittedly, I don’t know what the list was for and how he planned to use it).

Of course, being an ACE driver means being educated in the ways of the Department of Motor Vehicles. To that end, here’s  a sample question on a DMV Written Driving Test:

Using a cell phone while operating a motor vehicle is considered a distraction because: (A) It causes the driver to be concerned about the cost of the call; (B) It occupies the driver’s hands, eyes, and mind; or (C) It is an activity that draws the attention of other drivers.

The correct answer (spoiler alert) is B. When watching a video of funny cats on your phone, you should always pull over because your hands, eyes, and mind should be on cats and only cats. They’re a hoot.

Being an ACE driver has served me well during my 48 years of operating a motor vehicle. During that time I have gotten only two speeding tickets (both in South Carolina, where the po-pos didn’t approve of me going 77 in a 70-mile zone), and one citation for an expired tag (I just plain forgot one year).

And how, you ask, have I been able to keep such a (relatively) clean record?

All because of that cheesy film I watched during my sophomore year in high school.

So, I’d like to publicly thank Junior Miss Teen America USA Ingénue (or something along those lines) for the words of wisdom she shared – wisdom I’ve carried with me spanning five decades now.

Later today when I head to the grocery store to replenish my supply of fruits and vegetables, I’ll be alert (looking both ways to make sure smart monkeys aren’t in my path); courteous (if we’re both headed for the parking spot right next to the store entrance, I’ll let you have it unless I’m in a hurry and/or don’t like your looks); and educated (I’ll keep my college diploma in the passenger’s seat and show it to you upon request).

Happy motoring, fellow ACE drivers. I look forward to seeing you at the next four-way stop.

I can finally relate to a Beatles song.

Yep, if I were to listen to When I’m Sixty-Four (which I don’t plan to because, honestly, I think it’s god-awful) it’d hit pretty close to home as I celebrate my 64^th birthday today.

Well, “celebrate” is probably too strong a word. I’ll have a fun day with Mary (all days spent with Mary are fun), eat a couple of mini strawberry bundt cakes and then likely fall asleep while watching the Fiesta Bowl. I’ll be forgetting old acquaintances and never bringing them to mind long before the clock strikes 12.

Back in the day I’d stay up until midnight (and beyond) on New Year’s Eve, blowing kazoos and hooting and hollering, but time doesn’t need my conscious presence to change. Seeing a ball drop in Times Square isn’t nearly as important as allowing my head to drop on a cool, fluffy pillow. I call it “New Year’s Noddin’ Off Eve.”

So, what’s it like being 64? After having a few hours to process it, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s very much like being 63. My routine is basically the same.

I woke up, drank coffee, talked to Mary, commiserated with our animals, walked, and wrote. I was on a stretch where I was rambling roughly 10 miles per day, but we recently moved and have had a lot of distractions, so I’ve been topping out at the seven-mile mark the last few weeks. Still, not bad for a geezer.

Speaking of geezers, I think I’m in pretty good shape for someone my age. In fact, I’m in better physical condition now than I was 20 years ago.

I became a vegetarian in 2008, gave up cigarettes in 2010, don’t eat fried foods anymore and drink alcohol very rarely. I even weigh the same (155) that I did in high school. That’s a far cry from 44-year old me, who could often be spotted sucking on a lung dart while wolfing down a “Super Snack” and chasing it with a Tall Boy.

What’s a Super Snack, you ask? It’s a plate of barbecue flavored potato chips, dry roasted peanuts and pretzels smothered in squirt cheese and microwaved for 12 (not 11, not 13, but 12) seconds.

It sounds disgusting, but I loved it at the time.

Anyway, after years of smoking and eating garbage, I decided to change my lifestyle. I didn’t want to wind up sitting on the edge of my bed crying, nibbling a cold toaster pastry while adorned in only underwear and one sock. So, I cleaned up my act and got healthier.

Truth be told, 64-year old me could kick 44-year old me’s ass in a fight. (No worries of that happening, of course, because time travel has yet to be perfected and thus a temporal paradox is not possible).

Thing is, while I’m eligible for senior citizen discounts now and get called “sweetie” by servers at restaurants, I don’t think I act like I’m 64 – or how I once thought 64-year-olds were supposed to act.

When my dad was that age, I was 20 and 12 years younger than my closest sibling (I was one of those “Well, hell, Jean, that wasn’t supposed to happen” babies). Pop was a small, wiry man, and spent a lot of time plopped in his lounge chair puffing on unfiltered Lucky Strikes and slurping stale, black coffee. He didn’t listen to music and only watched TV when there was a baseball game on. Dude also had a wicked sense of humor.

I loved him dearly and miss him every day but, man, he seemed old. And I plan on spending my 64^th year much differently than he did.

For one thing, I don’t have a lounge chair … I perch on a futon.

I’ll never smoke again. The mere thought of lighting up a cigarette repulses me.

I have two cups of coffee (sweetened by monk fruit extract) in the morning, and no more.

And today I was on a brisk pre-dawn walk, put in my earbuds, and started things off by listening to The Hungry Wolf by X. Could never envision Pop be-bopping down the road with a boom box on his shoulder and saying, “Damn, Billy Zoom can shred it!”

And as for sports, I enjoy watching soccer more than anything else. If I’d ever seen Pop viewing a televised soccer match, I’d assume he was in a hostage situation. He showed up for my high school games but later told me, “I”m proud of you, son, but I had no idea what was going on out there … and didn’t want to learn.”

That said, there are days – and those days are increasing in number – when I most certainly “feel” 64.

Sometimes I’ll go to the gym and shoot baskets, and the next morning I ponder calling the fire department to come and use their hydraulic rescue tool to extract me from the bed.

My balance? It’s pretty much shot. I put on my pants while standing up, and in doing so I look like a drunk competing in a potato sack race. There’s lots of hopping and wobbling involved, and occasionally involuntary flatulence.

And during the course of any given day – without warning – one of my gears will slip. I’ll be walking along just fine and then suddenly it’ll feel like a muscle snapped. The result is an audible yelp followed by what appears to be some strange form of post-modern interpretive dance as I try to avert a face-plant.

My legs ache every night – although having two cats sleeping on them could be a factor.

And I can’t remember the last time I had uninterrupted slumber. I’m gonna have to get up and pee at least once – and usually twice. Or three times.

Otherwise, though, I try to take baseball legend Satchel Paige’s approach to getting on in years.

“Age is a question of mind over matter,” he supposedly said. “If you don’t mind, it don’t matter.”

So here I am, the subject of a bad Beatles song, starting on my journey to 65. I’m not as young as I once was, but that’s OK … I’m still kicking.

Instead of feeling old, I simply feel lucky.

And I need all the luck I can get when I’m trying to put my pants on.