TIME MARCHES ON

The Perks and Perils of Geezerhood

They say mirrors don’t lie, but I’m pretty sure mine does. Whereas I used to look in the mirror and see a marginally handsome 45-year-old man gazing back at me, I now see a confused sexagenarian with eye bags and hair like a scarecrow, wondering where the time went and trying to make sense of it all.

“Time marches on,” as the saying goes, and apparently, time’s army has been tromping steadily on my face for a while now, wearing large, heavy combat boots and accompanied by several brigades on horseback. Probably Clydesdales.

I always thought getting old would take longer. Yet, here I am, five months from my 66th year of living, and all I can do is lament my own decrepit state.

Actually, it’s not quite that bad, but I’m not the most objective observer when it comes to gauging my own condition. Like most folks my age, I could stand to lose a few, but other than that, I’m healthy enough to live until I die. Just ask my doctor.

My first clue that I‘m not in my prime anymore came about five years ago when the bag boy at the supermarket asked if I needed help out with my groceries. As a single man, I only shop for one, and I do it on an almost weekly basis.

The volume of groceries involved was not more than four regular-sized plastic bags that were dwarfed by the oversized cart they were riding in. The heaviest item in it was a half-gallon of milk.

I gave the impudent young lad the benefit of the doubt (he appeared to be about nine), thinking that perhaps he was just following company policy and that they offer this service to everyone over the age of 50. (I checked, and they don’t.) These punk kids might mean well, but they could use a few lessons in diplomacy.

In a more recent development, waitresses now call me “Sweetie” or “Hun,” probably because I remind them of their father or grandfather. It’s a sobering, proverbial slap in the face, but on the upside, I can flirt with them without getting slapped in the face for real because they rightly assume I’m harmless.

Not long ago, I ordered dinner at a popular restaurant chain. When the twenty-something waitress brought my check, I had been charged significantly less than the menu price for my meal. This presented me with an ethical dilemma. Do I ask if the entrée I ordered was on special? If the answer is no, I just burdened the sweet young lass with the assumption that I was eligible for the senior discount (is it that obvious?), or I confess to being the chronologically challenged geezer she thinks I am. It was tough, but in the end I did the noblest thing I could do under the circumstances — I kept my mouth shut, paid half-price for my meal and smiled, secure in the knowledge that age discrimination isn’t always a bad thing.

I proudly displayed photos of my sister’s progeny in my cubicle at work before I retired. One day, a middle-aged man came into my office, saw the photos, and asked nonchalantly if they were my grandchildren. Being single and lacking children of my own, the insinuation hit me like a brick. He’ll be out of the hospital in a month or so.

I’m at that awkward stage of being a great uncle, and of course, I’ve been a member of the AARP for more than a decade. In my mind, I feel too young for either of these benefits, but my eldest niece didn’t take that into account before she had two children of her own. I entered the realm of great-uncledom with a reluctant sense of pride, and I now have a second generation calling me Uncle Dave. My great niece calls me her “Funcle,” which is a contraction of ‘Fun Uncle.’ How’s that for a character reference?

Just last month I sustained a herniated disk — in my sleep. On the other hand, I still have all the original organs I was born with, not counting tonsils, and I still have most of my original teeth. The ones that were added later are mine also. After all, I paid for them. Point me toward a hiking trail, and despite the arthritis in my knees and hips, I can still outwalk most of the young people I know.

My eyes aren’t what they used to be, my arches fell flatter than the Roman Empire, and if you ever see me running, you had better run too, because it means something bad is coming down the road.

Mostly though, I’m still young at heart — a fast, shiny sports car trapped in a rapidly-decelerating delivery truck with bad spark plugs — wondering exactly when I left the fast lane. As the old rock song goes, “I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in,” and frankly, I wish I had better news. But to quote a birthday card I saw once, “Birthdays are good for us … the more we have, the longer we live.”

If God and Medicare are willing, I’m looking forward to another 65 years!

David E. Jensen is a freelance writer in Salt Lake City, Utah, where he writes and copy edits for two local magazines.