I'm no spring chicken

“Urgh.” 

Wait, did that sound just come out of ME? 

I had just gotten up from the couch when I heard a strange noise. It sounded just like my dad when he gets up from the couch. However, at that particular moment, Dad was six hundred miles away… and there was nobody else in the room.

Oh no, it’s happening. I’m getting… sniff… OLD!

Now listen. I’m only 41, but these things sneak up on you. In fact, the warning signs have been there for years, I’ve just ignored them till now. 

Case in point: last Christmas, we were gathered in the living room to open presents. The kids found the usual stuff in their stockings - candy, socks, toys, comics, - but at the bottom of mine was a gift with an unusual shape. It felt like some sort of electronic device in a plastic case. Oh good! More tech gear! Excitedly, I tore off the wrapping to find an orange and black thingamajig. It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at, but when it clicked, I was less than impressed. I had become the owner of a new, stylish, multi-function, just-for-men, state-of-the-art nose hair trimmer. And not only that, it came with attachments for clipping those unwanted (and often unnoticed?) ear hairs. Oh come on, I can’t be that bad. Looking up, I noticed my dearest wife had been watching me from the corner of her eye. I held up the cursed contraption. “Gosh, thanks Mrs. Claus. How very thoughtful.” She responded with one of those if-the-shoe-fits kinda shrugs. Wonderful. Just what I’ve always wanted. If ever there was a gift for an old man, this was it. 

However, this latest addition to my bathroom routine was just more evidence of my middle-agedness. Just look at how I treat the newspaper. I read it cover to cover while sitting on the couch after dinner, and then I comment on how the world is falling apart. Awful, I know. Here’s another sign you’re getting old: the political cartoon makes you laugh out loud. Another bad sign: one of the letters to the editor is from you. That being said, I’ve been crushing the crosswords lately, that is, as long as I can find my reading glasses.

My wife and I have been together so long we now communicate in a series of indiscernible mumbles. This is an actual conversation:

Her: “You left the light on in the garage.”

Me: “Hrmph.” 

Her: “Mm-hmm.”

[11 minutes later]

Me: “Bah!” [gets up]

When we’re out for lunch and the waitress asks, “White, brown, or multigrain?” I always choose the bread that most resembles birdseed. You know, anything to keep the old bowels moving. Speaking of which, I’ve used the term “microgreens” twice in the last week. My wife brought home some groceries and I got really excited when I found a box of granola. Quaker Harvest Crunch with Psyllium! I love this stuff! 

Favorite beverage: blonde lager in a frosted mug.

Favorite movie genre: World War II documentaries.

Average bedtime: 9:52 pm. 

Favorite pastime: Napping, followed closely by sitting on the porch.

You’re officially an old man when you get excited to see a new bird. One day I nearly drove off the road. “OMYGOSH, WAS THAT A TURKEY VULTURE?! Quick, write this down in my bird book!” And it turns out walking around with binoculars around your neck isn’t cool anymore. My kids tell me it never was.

There’s nothing like listening to music with your teenage son to make you feel like a dinosaur. “Sweet, classic rock.” Excuse me? Third Eye Blind is MODERN rock, thankyouverymuch. Also, when did Top 40 music get so bad? Techno-junk, mumbo-jumbo, substanceless… shoot, I’m mumbling again. 

Speaking of boys, teenagers are constantly jumping up to slap any overhead structure - ceilings, street signs, basketball hoops. I vaguely remember doing that when I was younger, but now my vertical is slightly higher than a penguin’s. And why would I want to jump into the stratosphere anyway? The higher I go up, the harder I come down - my creaky joints can’t take that kind of abuse anymore. My boys don’t walk up stairs, they bound, often two or three steps at a time. I’m more of a handrail kind of guy. And let’s not get into running - my jog is more of a slog. Phew, when did a mile get so long?

As for clothing, I tuck my shirt in, as should any self-respecting adult. I own a dozen ties. My son was going to an ugly sweater party and decided to raid my closet. Hey! That’s my favorite sweater-vest! At least he doesn't steal my college hoodie. It might be a little threadbare, but it’s still perfectly fine. My wife tried to throw it out a couple times, but thankfully I rescued it from the trash. Sneaky woman. Just a couple small holes… 

Restaurants stopped checking my ID eons ago. Please, can someone just check my age again? For old times’ sake? I’ll be writing to my local politician to make this mandatory. This is discrimination! Ageism! No matter how old people look, every single person needs their ID checked. On second thought, when was the last time a young person wrote a letter to the government? Dang. The signs are endless.

Roller coasters aren’t fun anymore. Neither are scary movies, or anything else that makes my blood pressure rise. Sitting quietly on a park bench, however, is fun. Are there any ducks around here I can feed? 

What exactly does an “annual physical” entail? And why is the doctor’s office calling to remind me I’m due? I’ll come visit you when I’m darned well ready! But, like, can it be soon? Because I’ve got a list of things that hurt. There’s an industrial-sized bottle of acetaminophen under the bathroom sink. I have a daily regimen of pills and vitamins. My pharmacist knows me by name. 

I have a mid-life crisis quarterly, a little pouty melt-down lamenting that I’m not doing enough with my life. It’s not long before I come up with a new plan to "live my best life," usually involving fame and fortune. My wife is always thrilled to hear my new ideas. “Honey, I want to quit my job and become a dancer. How do you upload videos to Youtube?” She just stares at me. I’ve learned the secret to a long-lasting marriage is to keep my life insurance policy rather conservative. That way, when she gets that look in her eye, she’ll hopefully realize that I’m worth more alive (and in my current occupation) than buried in a gravel pit somewhere. At least until the mortgage is paid off.

However, despite all my belly-aching about growing old, let’s just keep things in perspective. I recently read in the newspaper that scientists have discovered the only way to stop aging is to be dead. Who knew? Those scientists are always coming up with revolutionary health trends, like antioxidants from blueberries, and vegan diets to prevent dementia, and dying to stop the aging process (and coincidentally also start the rotting process). So, as bad as things get with my crumbling physique, I guess things could be worse. Last month I got an invitation for my university reunion only to discover that three of my classmates have already died. Died! No more awkward Christmas gifts, no more unwanted body hair, no more sore joints. Just gone. Dang.

Also, there are some nice things about the golden years. Like… uh… I can’t really remember. But I’m sure there’s something. I’ll have to ask Allegra on that newfangled gizmo my son has. But it’s tough to complain about getting old when you’re still on this side of the grass, even if I grunt every time I bend down to tie my shoes. 

Okay, enough of all this old-man grumbling. Let’s go seize the day. Trim my ear hair, smooch my wife, and eat some fiber! 

Urgh-hrmph… just gotta get off this couch first.

© D. B. Ryen Incorporated, May 2024.