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May 23, 2006 I have half my teeth, as opposed to all of them. I ache on rainy mornings, sunny mornings, and cold mornings. I weigh more than I once did and less than I could. I eat shredded wheat for breakfast and pay more attention to my bowels than I do to my wardrobe. Sack boys ask me if I need help with “those groceries” (usually two sacks). Do I look lame already? I got used to being called “sir” ten years ago. Now, I hear, “sir, can I help you get that stuff into your truck.” Am I lame? Putting on my socks is a major triumph. I never knew what a prostrate was twenty years ago. I didn’t realize how big my doctor’s fingers are, can you say pepperoni? I have high blood pressure, high cholesterol, a dysfunctional thyroid, and I am depressed as hell. When my wife cuts my hair, she reminds me of the balding spot on the crown of my head. I say, “What? At least I have some kind of crown.” Young girls think I’m cute when I’m drunk. They pinch my cheek and giggle. They never let me pinch anything. If I do, they shoo me like a fly in their soup. I find myself repeating the same old stupid stories. I find myself saying, “back when I was your age.” Dang, I never thought I would ever say that stuff. Most people are in shock when I tell them my favorite music comes from the Counting Crows and Pink Floyd. I guess old people are supposed to listen to Lawrence Welk reruns. My mother is ninety and waiting to die. My stepfather is ninety-three and waiting to break another hip. My kids want us to move near them so they can take care of us when we get older. Hell, we’re already older and we still can complete hygiene tasks on our own. Actually, we still sleep in the same bed and sometimes we…well, you know.
Turning sixty isn’t bad. After all, I have half my teeth. It just takes a little longer to eat that medium-rare sirloin and John Lennon has never sounded better. George Harrison is still my hero. Pink Floyd are geniuses, Eric Clapton is fantastic, and REM rocks. I can’t stop rockin’ in the USA with Neil Young. Someday you’ll turn sixty and maybe…just maybe you’ll have half your teeth, as opposed to all of them.
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