Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Sixty-eight

I've never liked birthdays, mine in particular.  I never thought being born was much of an accomplishment.

And it has nothing to do with growing older.  Well, it has a little to do with growing older.  I think I just don't like people paying attention to me for no apparent reason.  I prefer to remain under cover if you know what I mean.

When we went to Mizuna Saturday night, there was a festive-as-hell card on the table with "Happy Birthday" written in felt-tipped pen with lots of stars and bubbles drawn in to complete the scene.  It was thoughtful and all that, but the table would have looked more elegant without the note.

Getting old is embarrassing.  It isn't embarrassing because of all those well-intentioned people paying attention, sending you cards with lame jokes about how you're not getting older, you're getting better, posting on Facebook, inviting you to lunch, inviting you to brunch, sending you stuff.

It is embarrassing because as you age you find yourself not gliding through life as smoothly as before.  You have to ask "What?" a lot more.  You are more apt to choke on something during dinner. You cough more in the morning.  You can still get down on the floor with your (grand)kids and play and get silly; you just can't get up without making a minor scene.  Your attention span isn't what it used to be.  You tend to despair whenever your computer opens up a new indecipherable dialogue box.  You begin to see that inevitable moment when younger shoppers will move to a new checkout line so they won't be stuck behind an old person with coupons.

The thing about all these little changes is not so much that they inconvenience you, the aging person, but that they inconvenience others.  It is irritating to  have to say everything twice to some doddering old codger with tinnitus.  I don't know about you, but when I'm in a restaurant and some old guy at the next table chokes on his fois gras, I feel uncomfortable.  I also found myself running for cover at the Y whenever (Name withheld) would try to get his 85 year old body into the hot tub.  He passed out once and I felt sure I would have to start pounding on the guy's chest.  He snapped out of it just in time.  But that's what I mean.  Pounding on some old guy's chest at the Y is an inconvenience.  Worse yet, people would notice.

Notice, I am not complaining, or whining, or in any other way, being negative.  I'm desperately fighting off negativity by trying to be clever.  But here's the thing.  I would like to do a little whining and complaining.  I'm sixty-eight fucking years old!  I have a right.

That's the hardest thing about this birthday.  I can't complain.  All the people I love won't let me.  Moans and groans are met with rolling eyes.  Any reference to age is immediately dismissed.  I suppose all of that is to make me feel good about being so well-preserved for my age.  When I told Jacqueline Bonnano my age the other night at Mizuna, she appeared taken aback and I'm not sure if that was good or bad.

I do, in fact, feel good about how I am soldiering through this whole age thing.  I think my grey beard makes me look either distinguished or like a homeless person, depending on what I am wearing.  I still weigh about the same as I did when I retired.  I can still wear the same things I was wearing when I was teaching, which is testimony to either the great shape I'm in, or the fact that I can't afford to buy anything new.

I've thought about this a lot lately.  After all, at age 68 it is a sobering thought to think I only have 30 or so more good years ahead of me.  But I have reached one conclusion.  I'd rather be twenty years younger.