Posts Tagged ‘old men’

h1

Lunch…

September 4, 2014

McD_1 resize

McD_2 resize

McD_3 resize

McD_4 resize

McD_5

McD_6 resize
 

 

 

h1

Aging gracefully, one skin-tag at a time

August 16, 2013

Aging gracefully, one skin-tag at a time

h1

Insight regarding hindsight and foresight…..

June 24, 2013

Bummer.….

I finally get to the age where I really DO know everything, and I FORGET it….!

 

~-~* * *~-~

 

h1

The family get-together at the lake was fun, but then I got a call on my SHELL PHONE….

August 25, 2012

h1

I’m a senior citizen….

April 17, 2012

….but I take showers; taking a bath in a field is for wimps…

I’m a “senior citizen”, which means I receive a discount at the donut shop without asking. That may be nice from a cash-flow perspective, but it doesn’t do much for my ego. Sometimes, just to be a schmuck, I give the kid in the paper hat a pained glare and swear I don’t qualify. It’s kind of a kick to see which ones have the stones to call my bluff and which ones look around for Mom or someone to fix it.

Like it or not though, I DO qualify, so I make the best of it by looking for things that are funny about the process of rusting and falling apart like my old pick up truck. In fact, that’s what I tell people, that I’m starting to rust, make funny noises, and have things fall off just like my truck did before it….I can’t talk about it. Very sad. Of course, some of the noises aren’t very funny under certain circumstances. At least, that’s what I’m told.

From the daily scoop on my computer and in the morning paper, I keep up with the news, rumors, and inevitable replacement of the previous day’s latest great technological breakthrough with whatever Walmart will sell out of by morning.

From the comfort of my rocking chair on the porch, I contemplate the universe as I know it, throw peanuts to the squirrels, and watch the tireless neighborhood kids practice the skills they will need to conquer the world, or at least to survive its rather capricious meanderings through time. They’re amazing and annoying at the same time.

Those steering the ship right now, too young to think about retirement yet but too old to get away with referring to themselves as young go-getters on the way up anymore, are up against some interesting challenges already and don’t quite seem to know how to proceed. Check out their marketing behavior for some hints.

Tuned in to the fact that the boomers are starting to retire and will soon carpet the world with grey hair, today’s media barkers hawk arthritis medications, Life-Alert transmitters, and nursing home packages around the clock. Nobody sells laundry soap any more. It’s crazy. On the one hand they blow off about increased life spans and on the other they pummel us with all of the accoutrements one would need out in the pasture of doom.

Out of eight back-to-back TV commercials, six of them will be for some medicine, salve, or balm we allegedly can’t live without, or some other product from Hypochondriacland. The funny thing is, the current retirement crowd has already been around the block and knows the drill, so we’re not likely to be sucked in as much as they’d like us to be. Those following in our tracks, however, if they can keep up that is, poor wimps, will be so paranoid by the time they can retire that they’ll be checking into mausoleums instead of condos on the golf course.

Speaking of pastures, to drop back a bit, what’s the deal with all of these people sitting in bath tubs out in the middle of a field because they did a few ED pills? First of all, the young men in those ads look like they’re oozing testosterone, and they don’t even have ear hair yet! Good grief, where are their fathers…..?…..probably down at the beach shopping the bikini mall in their stead.

The market minders don’t know what they are doing. If they want our money, they should blow in our ears and convince us that, in spite of rumors to the contrary, we really are as vital and indestructible as we were back in the day instead of pushing all the woe is me crap. That’s going to backfire on them; already has, if they believe their own shtick. If their plan is to tap into our legitimate aches and pains and sell us on a dozen or so others we hadn’t thought of yet so they can reap the largess of our Medicare coverage, they might want to think again since they are the ones that will be stuck with the bill. Talk about dumb!

And when they start to shift into focusing on padding their own soon-to-be-enjoyed nests, which we all do…..human nature, you know….. it may dawn on them that they are a minority. What an interesting turn of events. Imagine all of these trembling, paranoid, pill-popping folks sitting in their pastoral bathtubs….while we, their elders, are getting chucked out of McDonalds for being rowdy, or down at the beach checking out all those 85 year old chickee-poos in their yellow polka-dot bikinis.

 

~-~* * *~-~

 

h1

Seniority….

October 30, 2009

My fingers curled around the cold steering wheel and I flexed them in protest. On days like this every joint in my body aches, and the knuckles in my hands are no exception. All 28 of them. I squinted right and left, hoping for an opening in the afternoon traffic going by the shopping center. I saw one coming and shifted my foot on the gas pedal.

Just as I eased the big Buick into the road, a red Ford Ranger that had seen better days screeched to a stop in the opposing lane. His left turn signal was on. The young man behind the wheel rolled down his window and made the obligatory hand gesture, one handed down from generation to generation in preparation for just such times or for whatever other reason one might deem necessary or amusing.

“Old fart!”

I stared straight ahead and slowly moved the big Buick across the road, one hand on the steering wheel, the other below the window, clenched into a tight fist with a single digit extended. As I crawled past the young man I gave him a vacant half-smile that suggested I was somewhat embarrassed by, and apologetic of, my driving skills. Which I wasn’t.

“Up yours, y’ little putz…!” I smiled through clenched teeth as our eyes briefly met.

I caught a glimpse of the red truck in my rear view mirror as he shot into the parking lot and sped out of sight.

As I drove down the street towards home I began to chuckle to myself, thinking back nearly half a century to another road in another city many miles away. I could still see the old man’s vacant smile as our eyes met briefly. He had glanced apologetically at me as he had urged the old Packard onto the road.

“Old fart!” I had muttered smugly to myself, shooting the old man a smirk. I had popped the clutch on the old ’51 Plymouth, squealing the tires as I pulled into the parking lot and the old man drove out of sight.

I smiled at the memory.

I had never realized until today that the old bahstid had been giving me the finger and calling me names behind that vacant smile.

h1

Sartorial progressions …….

October 4, 2009

Did you ever notice how people age? As a woman ages, her chest appears to get closer to the ground. As a man ages, his chest slips behind his belly like a tectonic plate or leaves for Miami or something. Some, like me, at least according to my daughter, never had a chest in the first place, so claiming “it sank” tends to be a flat tire regarding the spare tire.

The minute the estrogen poops out, a woman goes from a 36-C to a Cross-Your-Heart Cargo Net. Similarly, as improved judgment and a fear of death increase in inverse proportion to the testosterone level, a man finds himself searching for longer shirts and shorter pants at first. Later, a pair of trouser legs and collar with sleeves would suffice quite nicely.

Men seem to shrink into their skivvies from the neck down after the age of seventy. All the hair on a man’s head migrates to his ears and his back, and he loses any semblance of hips he might have once had. During middle age, a man can wear his pants somewhere between his knees and his navel, leaving an exact replica of his belt buckle permanently embossed in reverse and upside down on his overhanging abdomen. As middle age becomes history, however, the belt buckle migrates north until it could easily be mistaken for one of those string tie medallions.

Women, on the other hand, become all hips. My grandmother went on an Elder Hostel trip once and visited a famous canal. It was nearly a disaster, because when she got out of the bus to walk over for a look, this klaxon horn started going off and warning lights started flashing……

I remember my grandfather. He was a pair of pants with a belt-line somewhere around where one would normally expect to find a shirt pocket full of cigars and a leaky fountain pen. He was short. I always expected him to waddle around the room singing “Hi Ho Hi Ho it’s off to work we go…”. I suspect he used to be about six feet tall, but the only thing left was about four feet of legs with a head and two arms propped on top.

In medical school, any prospective gerontologist surely must be warned that he or she must choose between having the ability to smile and laugh surgically removed or agree to be on Valium for life.