Oh, what the hell! It’s Tuesday afternoon, I have less than an hour on my work clock, and I went to bed before 7 p.m. yesterday. Why not have some red wine! My daily commute is about 20 feet (6.1 meters); that is, from the bed to my work laptop in a neighboring room. That includes a necessary detour to the bathroom. I try not to look at myself in the bathroom mirror – or any other mirror in the house. I no longer look like a Greek/Italian/Mexican studburger who rode in on a black stallion. I kind of look like the dirty old man parents warn their kids about. Oh well. I’ve had my fun.
Ever think deeply, while standing alone, and wonder if your body has suddenly decided it wants to lead a life of its own? Well…I’ve come to the cold, brutal realization that mine has. And I’m like, ‘Bye bitch!’ Don’t let me hold you back!
‘It’s hell getting old!’ my parents always said. I’m starting to feel the anxiety. I watched them struggle with the various pains of aging and could barely see myself in those same situations years from then. I began to realize that I won’t be so fortunate to have good health as I do now. Watching my Uncle Wes* deal with his constant physical struggles cemented that reality into my brain. I’m about to make some modifications to both bathrooms, especially the shower stall, to help him navigate those spaces. A few weeks ago he expressed concern for my future welfare.
“You might need this, too,” he said, referring to grab bars in the shower. He’ll be 86 in a few months.
I have no one to care for me, if I ever get to be his age. I never got married and had children, or just had children. I never wanted to be a “Baby Daddy”. I had wanted to be a husband and father. But just tell the Great Creator your plans for the future and wait for the laughter.
I’ll be 62 in less than a month and hope to retire at age 65. My mother retired at 70, but I’m certain I can’t make it that long. I love my job, but I love time and solitude even more. My ultimate goal was always to be a true writer, with no other necessary career just to help me get by.
A few years ago a close friend posted a picture on Facebook his daughter took of him after a visit to a vintage car show for his birthday. He was kneeling beside a vehicle. I congratulated him on making it to another year and then asked, “BTW how long did it take you to get back up from that squatting position?” with an accompanying laugh emoji.
He never answered, but that always comes to mind, whenever I try to get up from the floor after doing some basic calisthenics or squat down for some ungodly reason. Yes, getting old his hell, but the alternative isn’t too pleasant.
Then again, I’m not “old”! I’m vintage! Damnit!
*Name changed
Chief Writing Wolf 
😅
You’re only as old as you feel. At 80, most of the time, I feel 55.
Absolutely! I had my testosterone tested over a year ago, and the doctor said the results show I’m in the same category as a man in his early 30s. Now, if I could just make more of a concerted effort to exercise, I’ll be in even better shape!
I hear you, young man. (I’m 75, and actually feel pretty damned good so don’t despair. The exercise is key, though.)
Getting old is a bitch! I plan to do something only to realize that’s not something I can do anymore.
I know, but getting old isn’t for wimps! I realized a while back I have more years behind me than ahead, yet I’m still plugging away. I’m determined never to get “old” – whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. I prefer “vintage” or “mature”. But I’m damn sure not “old”!