Blog #15

My wife’s having a birthday soon.  Birthdays at our age are fun, but lurking behind the merriment is the realization that we are now one year closer to all the stuff we don’t want to be closer to.  Grandkids are different; they want to get older. 

 

Kid:  Yay! Another year closer to getting my driver’s license. 

Grandparent:  Oy! Another year closer to losing my driver’s license.

Kid:  Yay! Another year closer to moving into a home of my own.

Grandparent:  Oy! Another year closer to moving into a home.

Kid:  Yay! I’m getting taller. 

Grandparent: Oy! I’m getting shorter.

Kid:  Yay! I’m growing up so fast.

Grandparent:  Oy! He’s growing up so fast.

Those young people certainly have lots of dreams, but when you get old, you realize that maybe your dreams are not going to come true after all.  But – you do what you do and you make the best of what you have and as my wise old father used to say, “You count your blessings.”

The senior years really don’t have to be bad at all.  There’s plenty of fun out there and always new things to learn, no matter how old you are.  It’s Summer now and I had some grandkids out swimming.  At the pool was an old man walking laps in the water.  I heard him tell someone he was 95.  God love him!  I showed the kids that if you take one of those Styrofoam noodles and hold one end over one of the underwater jets, then water will shoot out the other end.  They loved it.  After fifteen minutes or so I looked over, and there was the 95-year-old guy holding a noodle and making the water spurt out.  You’re never too old to enjoy being a kid.

Then there was a gaggle of elderly women in the pool.  You know, I’m not fond of the word “elderly”.   It’s so – ancient.  Let’s jettison the E word and just say these women were “of an age”.  The conversation among them was about how many miles they walk every day.  When I heard one say that she walks five miles each day, I just couldn’t resist.  I interjected myself and said, “I tried walking five miles a day for a week once, but I wound up 35 miles from home.”  Not even a giggle.  Their ears must have been waterlogged.

Hi there and welcome back.  Hope you’re well, whether you are a teenager or “of an age”.   A friend of mine had a little episode the other day.  She wound up at the hospital where the doctor told her . . .  Well, let’s start by saying what the doctor should have told her.  The doctor should have said, “Your heart started beating too fast; could have been caused by a lot of things.  We’ll keep an eye on it.”  Plain, non-threatening English.  What the doctor actually said was, “You have Paroxysmal Atrial Tachycardia.”  I’ve picked on you doctors before and now I’m going to do it again.  Remember your oath?  “Do no harm” it says.  First of all, scaring the crap out of your patient is harmful.  Second, using a bunch of indigestible words that only doctors can understand is insulting.  Don’t tell me my temperature is 39 and don’t tell me I have mumbo-jumbo-itis.  Speak English!  I think if doctors didn’t have to learn all that gobbledygook, they could graduate medical school in eighteen months.

The first time I visited Dr. Blood, he told me I had Monoclonal B-Cell Lymphocytosis.  I turned to him and calmly replied, “Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe.”  Aha!  Now we both understood each other that neither one of us understood each other, and we proceeded to speak English.  Try it sometime.  Your doctor will get the message.  By the way, the monoclonal stuff is just some heebie-jeebie thing in my blood that nobody has to worry about.  Is heebie-jeebie a medical term?  I bet it is.

Do you have a dog?  My, we’re just flying from swimming pools to doctors to dogs.  Strap yourself in.  Jennifer in North Carolina has three dogs.  I remember taking her oldest, Micah, out on a leash.  A dog’s morning walk is akin to your reading the morning newspaper.  If only Micah could talk: “Ok, Pops, a doe crossed over here this morning with her fawn.  Boy they smell good.  And look, it’s trash day.  Sassy’s humans had meatballs last night for dinner.  I bet they didn’t give Sassy any.  And ooh, ooh, look over here, Pops.  A squirrel was here not more than a few minutes ago.  Can you smell it?  No, I guess you can’t.  What a primitive species you humans are!   I can see better than you, hear better than you, certainly smell better.  And I can run faster too.  I’m the one who should be holding the leash.  Look, there’s Rocco.  Hi, Rocco.  Nice day to be walking your human, isn’t it?  Yah, this one’s just babysitting.  He’s old.  Oh, thanks.  Your butt smells nice too.”

Those humans shake hands, which is nuts.

That’s just not an option for mutts.

We’ve no hands, you know

So when we say hello

We do it by sniffing our butts.

How could you possibly have imagined when you awoke this morning that you would be reading such a thing?  Well, that’s what you get for hanging with me.  Glad you’re along for the ride. 

At McDonald’s there is a woman “of an age” lingering around the outside, welcoming patrons, directing traffic and generally being joyful and upbeat.  Her name is Bonnie.  Today we had this discussion:  Bonnie started with

Hello, Darling, and how are you today?

          I’m fine, Bonnie.  How are you?

          I’m good, Sweetie.  And very thankful to the Man upstairs.

          But Bonnie, what if it’s really a Woman upstairs?

          Then God help us all.

Ok, I have just insulted all my women readers.  Let’s move on to the men.

At the Zoo I saw two men looking over a map while their companions (wives? girlfriends? parole officers?) watched.  I walked up and offered my services.  No, the men said, we have it figured out.  I turned toward the distaff half and said, “Men never accept directions.  Come see me when they’re lost.”  C’mon, men, you know I’m right.  We never accept directions. “Siri be damned, I know how to get there.”  Really?  You don’t know where your reading glasses are.  You barely know where the bathroom is.  And how many times have you lost your car in the  parking lot?  We, as husbands, have learned how to say yes to everything.  Yes. Dear.  Yes, Honey.  Whatever you want, Cupcake.  Except, “Let’s ask directions.”  We would sooner be spayed than ask directions.  I’m a man!  I know what I’m doing!  And what do we do when we finally and inevitably get lost?  We start yelling at our wives, as if they had anything to do with our galactic idiocy.  I’d better stop; my wife is calling.  Yes, Dear.

Stay well; see you next week.  Don’t get lost.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com