By Dick Platt
Corsicana Daily Sun
Age is a high price to pay for maturity, but, despite the high cost of living, it remains very popular (what did he just say?). I have had just enough favorable comments about last week’s rant on aging that I thought I’d give you another dose on the subject.
Writing this stuff is hard for me because, as I get older, I grow quieter. I guess that’s because, as I get older, I have more stuff to keep quiet about. Some people, when they get my age, are content to just sit back and watch their certificates roll over. Not me! Since I can’t seem to grow old gracefully, I’ll just do it any way I can.
I like to think I continue to have the right aim in life, but, unfortunately, I’m running a little low on ammunition. I still walk around with my head held high, but that’s because I’m still getting used to my bifocals.
Who am I trying to kid? Heck, my last birthday cake looked like a prairie fire and set off the smoke alarm. I’m no longer interested in life in the fast lane — I’m having trouble coping with life in the driveway. I used to search for greener pastures but now I can barely mow what I’ve got. I’m in such bad shape even dialing long distance flat wears me out.
I have long since passed that phase point in my life when my broad mind and narrow waist have changed places. Although I have retained my youth in many ways, I have stored it in an old container.
I used to be a strong advocate of the two-party system — a party on Friday night and then another on Saturday night. Now my motto is “party til you pee.” I sport a medical bracelet that reads, “In case of an accident, the body looked like this before.”
Every morning I listen to “Snap, Crackle, and Pop,” and it’s not from my cereal. My joints have become more dependable than the National Weather Service for predicting inclement weather. I have so many aches and pains, if I were an automobile, I’d be recalled. This morning, I spent five minutes trying to get the wrinkles out of my socks before I realized I wasn’t wearing any.
When I sit in my rocking chair, I have trouble getting it started. I need to take a nap just to get ready for bed. If dog years are relevant, I am rapidly approaching the time when I can have an occasional accident in the house and my wife will just rub my nose in it and say, “Bad Boy!” And my love life isn’t that great either. Geez, is it my imagination, or am I starting to sound like Rodney Dangerfield?
I can remember, back in Denver, when TLW and I used to celebrate New Year’s Eve by getting naked in the hot tub with a magnum of champagne. Now, we just have a martini and a sponge bath in the sink. The last time I got a real gleam in my eye, it was caused by a short in my electric blanket. Nowadays, we turn the lights out for economic, not romantic reasons.
However, I have got to admire my spunky wife (she wasn’t The Little Woman back then) though. She still considers herself a sexy senior citizen. In fact, during the recent Derrick Days festivities, she entered the wet shawl contest.
Like last week, I would like to close with some more philosophical thoughts about getting on in years:
No matter how old you are, you’re younger than you will ever be again.
There are four phases to life: when you believe in Santa Claus; when you no longer believe in Santa Claus; when you become Santa Claus; and when you look like Santa Claus.
If the good Lord is willing, I will die peacefully in my sleep like my grandfather did — and not screaming and yelling like the folks riding in the back seat of his car.
When I die, I want to be buried in Florida so I can still vote. (How ironic was this little witticism from eight years ago? We are now in Sarasota where Medicare rules!)
Dick Platt is a Daily Sun columnist. Want to “Soundoff” on this column? Email: firstname.lastname@example.org