The old cliché goes, “It’s hell to get old.”
And, of course, the clichéd comeback is, “Well, it’s better than the alternative.”
But there is something about the whole New Year’s thing, which motivates us to some form of retrospection.
I mean, what else are we going to do as we contemplate how we ended up sleeping on the dog bed, next to a puddle that probably didn’t come from Fido.
So there you lie, drifting in and out of fitful sleep on the living room couch—as you are still on lock-out status from the bedroom, apparently as a result of something you said or did last night with your significant other’s best friend.
And while you await the Rose Bowl kickoff, you have some time to think deep thoughts of life and love—such as how you would love to have a Bloody Mary to improve your life, right about NOW.
Back to the whole aging thing, the memory loss cliché is unfortunately altogether grounded as a fact of life.
Like the other day when I went to take the dog for a walk and had this strange feeling that I had on socks of colors that didn’t match each other.
Nope, I glanced down and could clearly see that my socks did match each other.
Unfortunately, I could clearly ascertain that information because the strange feeling was due to the fact that I had forgotten to put on my pants.
The good news is that I am almost at the age when I pull shit like that the younger people just smile and think how cute old people act.
And the other old people just nod and think, “Yup, been there—done that.”
So I ponder when my wife will let me back into the bedroom and what, exactly, was that puddle, and can I somehow remember how to make a Bloody Mary.
I am drawn back to an auspicious date, 19 years ago as of yesterday, when the difference between not making it past age 38 and being here today to enjoy a head that feels like a rotten melon that was just run over by a truck, was solely based on the kindness of strangers, as well as a few of my best friends.
The whole astonishing tale is posted on my old website in a terrible vintage PDF format.
The map to the right shows where the whole drama unfolded. What that particular satellite map does not really show is the 100 miles of open ocean that almost became my premature place of permanent internment.
So, here I still am. You’ll just have to get used to the unsightly scratching of places not appropriate and the unseemly—but admittedly funny when MY dad used to do it—habit of sometimes farting with every step I take.
Laugh now…your time will come.
At least if you’re lucky and can benefit from the blessing of family, good friends and maybe even the kindness of strangers.
(In the meantime…) “Yawn”
Knock, knock. “Dear…can you please let me in…I really need a nap. Pleaseeeeeeee.”
