The Good, The Bad, and The Oldie

Running from one department store to another, I tried on dozens of hip outfits, and each one made me feel like I was modeling a Halloween costume.

I was talking to my brother on the phone the other day. “How are you doing?” I asked.

“Oh, you know. The old back is acting up again.”

“I know what you mean. I get the same thing and then my left leg goes numb,” I answered.

“That’s nothing. When the crick in my neck starts up, I see stars,” he explained.

“Yeah, it starts in the neck then shoots right down the shoulder,” I added. “But it can’t be worse than that burning feeling I get in my hands.”

“Geez, that burning feeling is horrible. Probably arthritis,” he said.

“Yeah, arthritis…or something worse.”

“Yeah…or something even worse,” he mumbled. “It keeps me up at night, and just when I finally do drop off to sleep, I have to get up to go to the bathroom.”

“How many times do you get up to go to the bathroom?” I asked.

“Four times a night.”

“I’ve got you beat there. I get up five times.” It was a competition I wasn’t exactly thrilled to win. “Ever lose your balance?” I asked.

“If I stand up too fast – and you?”

“If I stand up too fast, sit down too fast, if I close my eyes…” I explained.

“Well, you’ve always been a little unbalanced anyway,” he said. I could hear him snickering on his end.

“I guess we’re just getting old,” I said.

“Getting old? Don’t be ridiculous,” he answered. “We’re not getting old. We ARE old!”

With that we both laughed like two old codgers do when they realize the inevitable truth. Then we ended the conversation with words our Dad, the old philosopher, passed on to us many years ago. “Sometimes you just have to take the good with the bad.”

I have to admit that the golden years did kind of sneak up on me. One day I looked in the bathroom mirror and I spotted a gray hair. I actually thought it was funny. Me, still so young, so vibrant, with a gray hair. I shrugged my shoulders and forgot about it. A couple of weeks later that single gray blade turned into a silvery patch. Interesting, I thought, premature gray. It actually made me look a bit distinguished. But, a few months after that, I found myself staring in that same mirror, a reflection of a gray mop staring back at me. It was only then that I began to notice the map of lines and creases that were etching into a face that now looked more like the Wicked Witch of the West than Dorothy of Kansas.

I immediately ran down to the local pharmacy and searched the shelves for a coloring that would bring back my former luster. I wanted something that would look natural enough so that no one would ever know that I was dyeing my hair. I think I chose something called Autumn Delight or Almond Beauty. Next, I wandered down the aisle of gels and creams that guaranteed to rid you of those unsightly lines and wrinkles. I even toyed with the idea of sending for some information on the miracles of plastic surgery and its promise to return those youthful years. As far as I was concerned, in my head I was still in my twenties. It was this darn body of mine that was refusing to cooperate. As it turned out, that “natural” hair color was closer to Bozo the Clown in the sunlight. The wrinkle cream made me feel like a greased pig and it smelled just as bad. And when I researched a face lift, the lifting seemed like way too much trouble.

I started to think that maybe a new wardrobe might wipe away a few of the years that had piled on. Something more “with it.” I remembered the days when I sacrificed comfort for the newest fad, balancing on platform shoes while trying not to trip over the flare of my bell bottom pants while I avoided choking myself with a string of love beads. Running from one department store to another, I tried on dozens of hip outfits, and each one made me feel like I was modeling a Halloween costume. Each youthful-looking outfit made me look even older. When I began to gravitate to the plaid flannel shirts and sweat pants, my wife rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you buy some decent clothes instead of dressing like an old man?”

I decided to share the hard truth with her. “I AM an old man, and I think this old geezer has earned the right to be comfortable.” I reminded her that Albert Einstein, the smartest man in the world, dressed in over-sized clothes for the sake of comfort.

“So, you think you’re another Einstein?” she said.

“I didn’t say that…and stop bothering me about clothes. I’m trying to figure out if there are any flaws in the theory of relativity.”

And then there is my favorite – the senior moment. If I can’t find my glasses (even though they’re resting on top of my head), if I can’t remember whether I shut the stove off and have to ride ten miles back home to check (it’s always shut off), or if I don’t recall who played the tin man in the movie, The Wizard of Oz, someone my age or older is quick to throw me a sympathetic smile and whisper, “You’re having a senior moment.” If that’s so, then I’ve been having senior moments since I was a senior…in high school! My memory has always been hit or miss. I can sometimes remember things like the name of the first girl I ever danced with in the first grade, but what did I do with those car keys?

I have to admit, getting old isn’t all bad. It has its perks. I can ride the bus or the train for half fare. I get a discount at fast food restaurants. I can see a movie at a special senior price. Kids call me sir, as though I’m royalty. When someone accidentally bumps into me, they actually say excuse me, and someone once even offered their seat to me on the subway.

So, when those old aches and pains of age come calling, they’ll find me lounging around in an over-sized sweat suit, wolfing down a half price burger after seeing an old Betty Davis flick for just a couple of bucks, and thinking of my advanced years philosophically. Sometimes you just have to take the good with the bad.