Old age. Pure and simple. Sometimes maybe not so simple.
It’s like one day I was the tasty olive served up on a toothpick in a James Bond classic cocktail…shaken, but not stirred. And then the lights blinked. And shazam!!! I’m a raisin sinking to the bottom of that martini.
Yeah! Yeah! I know hugmamma likes to crack wise about all kinds of things based upon decades of experience. But that’s just it. She’s talking about all the stuff she use to do; not living it like the young chick she use to be.
Old folks like to talk, talk, talk. That’s pretty much all we can do.
Oh, I know there are those exceptions to the rule. Like President Bush, the elder statesman, who at a ripe old age jumped out of a plane on the end of a parachute. But you know what that was, don’t you? That was George H. saying…”I can do this…before I rendezvous with the Big Guy upstairs.”
On the other hand, look at the last of the Flying Walendas, the dude who’s walking across Niagara Falls on a tightrope. The last time his grandpa tried to do that, walking a tightrope high above a city street…was his last. Unfortunately.
At some point, the body goes “Okay. Been there. Done that. I ain’t going out on a limb for you anymore, dude! Get that through your thick skull!”
A month or so ago, or maybe two or three, there was a James Bond marathon on TV.
I got my fill of Sean Connery as the hunky spy. Images of the senior Bond kept flashing across my mind, trying to reconcile one with the other. I convinced myself that the old Connery still had it. Then I saw Never Say Never Again, and the dream ended. Still good looking, still somewhat virile. But more of a caricature of what he once was as the cocky, gorgeous Welshman of years past.
Old age sucks! Don’t let any well-meaning, old-timer…like me…convince you differently.
Once your mailbox is flooded with Medicare supplement forms, there’s no turning back. It’s official. You’re on your way to la-la land…along with the other sheep put out to pasture.
What else can a wrinkled up raisin like me do but…blah, blah, blah about the good old days. Or give counsel about this ailment and that supplement. Or coo about the guy who lies all shriveled up beside me.
And then there’s the daughta! A reminder of what I was, and now I ain’t. As if I needed reminding.
Twenty-seven years old and rarin’ to go. Flittin’ from city to city dancing up a storm. Only my fingers come close to keeping up…churning out post after post on my trusty laptop.
So there’s the difference between her and me…old age.
Youth does; oldsters don’t. That’s “how the cookie crumbles.”
…so enjoy those cookies…before your digestive system goes haywire!..and backfires on you…