I just received an email from a cousin lamenting the passing of another one of her birthdays.
I really can’t empathize with her whine because she is still at the age where she doesn’t have to start trimming her mustache.
I, on the other hand, reside in the region between 280 and 420 dog years old. Even worse, if I was compared to the latest base-line computer capabilities, I’d be Methuselah to the second power. I’m getting so slow I make “dial-up” look like warp speed.
To be truthful, I’d never given much thought to my transition to the early fall of my years until I my lovely lady barber (a.k.a., wife) brought to my attention that she needed to trim some fur from my ear orifices.
It was then that I started to take serious notice of a few silver follicles hitting the cutting cape. It startled me to the point that I requested a pause in the grooming; I grabbed a mirror and yanked my head back to check if I had finally reached the stage where I had to choose between the agony of “tweezer city” or braiding my nose hairs.
Now let’s get this straight. Aging doesn’t bother me. I’ve been doing it since I was born. The process has had its positives.
I discovered why girl’s bicycles are built different just about the same time I attained a plateau of understanding about women that taught me male begging was not the exclusive forte of street bums.
Lest I forget, I went through the normal span of time when my parents’ IQ seemed to drop to a Neanderthal level. It was amazing how dramatically my own worldliness overshadowed what they considered sage advice during my early teens. Of course, they suddenly became geniuses again when I was on my own and living on a military paycheck. It’s remarkable how your perspective changes when you’re coughing up your own bucks for tenny runners and blue jeans.
Years added a plethora of new words and terminology to my vocabulary such as: rent, insurance, credit cards, car payments and mortgage along with social growth interfaces such as, “You’ve got to be kidding. Saturday night is when I do my hair… ah… this IS Nick, right?”
Still, those were merely normal maturation experiences and I never considered that there would come a time that my best buds would invite me along on a hunting trip just because if things went to hell they could use my balding scalp as a signal mirror.
Remember in your 20s when you use to say things like, “Yeah, he’s getting up there, probably in his upper 40s by now?” Well by the time you hit that benchmark, you’ll find yourself adding 20 more years to the quote while considering the “mid 40s” vernacular a chronological term rather than something referencing your waistline.
Aging is a mysterious process, at least for me.
Inside, I’m still the same motorcycle racin’ drive-in movie necking, rock and roll drummer that I was in college. I still have the fire of a young military officer but my mellowing exterior is starting to have some chassis problems and my joints are picking up some rust. Even my dentist is fussing about my gums. I don’t know why. The oldest members of my family still have all of their teeth although, admittedly, most of them are in jars.
My doctor says that old football injuries are catching up to me so fast that soon the only original body part not requiring a replacement will be my torso. The chiropractor snickers that snapping my vital body units back into place has become more fun than popping bubble wrap.
This geezer syndrome seems to be progressing so fast that soon I’ll be entering the zone of the annual colon exam and believe me, when that happens, it will not add to my vision of aging gracefully.
Enough, I have to go now. Why, I’m not sure.
I guess what it means is either I have to take a nap or head for the outhouse.
I hope I get right this time.
Nick can be reached at email@example.com (we hope).