April 1, 2015 Article

The Old Coot’s new car is even bossier than his old one.

By Merlin Lessler

My car makes me lie. A message appears on the display screen after I start it, forcing me to acknowledge that looking at the screen can result in a serious accident. Then, it bullies me into promising to only make changes to the radio, the heater and the GPS when the car is stopped. And, to read the safety instructions in the navigation manual. The message won’t clear until I press “agree” on the touch screen. I lie; I press it.

My car is bossy. My old one bossed me around too, ordering me to check the tire pressure, get gas, etc., but I had some say. Now, I’m at the mercy of an over protective nanny running things from someplace behind the dash. The dealer says it’s an integral part of the car and can’t be altered, that all new cars are like this. It sounds to me like a lawyer thing, so car manufacturers are protected when I get in an accident. Even if that’s true, they didn’t have to make it so bossy. 

The other day I wanted to go fishing. I was on the third floor in a hotel along the coast of Florida. I stepped out onto the balcony and used the car’s remote to unlock the doors. That way, I could leave the key (a $300 black box that’s more a computer than a key) in the room and still get my fishing gear out of the trunk. I sure didn’t want to lose the key in the surf. I’m not sure footed on dry land; put me waist deep in a surging ocean and I’m sure to topple over, and destroy the key. When I got down to the car, the doors were locked. “My aim must have been off,” I told myself, and climbed the three flights of stairs back to my room. This time I made sure the lights blinked, letting me know the door lock message was received by the car. I went back down, ready to land a big Pompano; the doors were still locked. The car didn’t want me to leave it unlocked for more than 30 seconds. I had to fish with a $300 key in my pocket. I was nervous and the fish knew it. I didn’t catch a thing. 

It got me again, when I pulled into a parking spot overlooking the ocean. I wanted to sit there, sip my coffee and listen to the radio. The car wouldn’t let me! The radio wouldn’t play unless I started the car, which you do in this model by stepping on the brake and pushing a “start” button. The “key” just sits in your pocket and tells the car it’s OK. Then, by mistake, I pushed the start button without stepping on the brake. The dash lit up and the radio came on. The screen behind the speedometer scolded me, “Step on the brake stupid, if you want the car to start.” I ignored it since I’d inadvertently accomplished my objective. But then, the main screen put up a message. It ordered me to shut off the radio; I was running down the battery. I ignored that message too. It went away after a minute or so. Then, it came back, scolding me again; it repeated itself every few minutes and got so bossy I gave up and went outside to a bench as far from the car as I could get and enjoyed the surf. I’m in the market for a low tech, 1954 Ford. If you know where I can find one, let me know (Bill Wonder?). 

March 25, 2015 Article

The Old Coot can’t handle a schedule.

By Merlin Lessler

Someone will ask an old coot like me, “Do you want to get together next week for lunch?” I reply, “No, sorry; I’m tied up next week.” Tied up? With what? A busy seven-day agenda? Absolutely not. Most likely, it’s a single thing for the week. A dentist appointment on Wednesday at 9 o’clock, for example. That’s the way old coots are. We can only do one thing a week. The pressure of two or more items on our calendar is more than we can mentally handle. Even the one thing can cause an anxiety attack

Monday rolls around and the activity clock begins. It’s a long “to-do” list for most people. For us old coots, it’s time to start fretting about that 9 o’clock dentist appointment on Wednesday with Pam. We putter our way through the day, doing this and that, trying to keep our mind off the obligation hanging over our head two days hence. Now mind you, it’s not the dentist procedure that causes the anxiety, it’s the fact that we have to do something, at a specific time, on a specific day. We’re used to doing whatever we want, whenever we want. We put a lifetime of a calendar running our lives behind us. The life that started when we turned 5 and had to go to school. It grew from there; Little League practice, piano lessons, Cub Scouts. We grew up, got married, had kids and the daily agenda grew with us. Then, the kids grew up and left and we grew old, retired and found ourselves like preschoolers again, with nothing on our schedule.

After 60 years of an agenda, we embraced the new found freedom. People ask, “What do you do all day?” At first, we feel guilty and rattle off a list of activities: work out at the gym, house repairs, volunteering, Rotary, Elks, etc. It’s a boilerplate list that we spit out to cover our guilt over having nothing to do. That’s how it starts, this retirement thing. Some people can’t handle it; they get a job, sign up for everything in sight. But, a true old coot gets over that guilt trip pretty fast. We’re busy, but on our terms. We’ve had a taste of what it’s like to be 5 years old again and we like it. Ask us to put something on our calendar and we resent it, even stuff we love to do. The answer is always, “Maybe, I’ll have to check my schedule for the week.” (We might have room to do one thing. But, it will have to be pretty good to get us to write it down.) 

And, when the day comes, to do the one thing on our calendar, we initiate the old coot appointment strategy. It’s called, get there on time. If the appointment is for 9 o’clock and entails a 30-minute drive, we leave the house at 8 o’clock. Just in case we run into traffic, a detour or the car breaks down. It’s part of the oath we take when we’re sworn into old coothood; be on time, and better yet, be early. So, there I sit in the dentist’s office with a 30-minute wait. When it’s over, I climb out of the chair and walk to the counter with gleaming, professionally cleaned teeth. I breathe a giant sigh of relief; my calendar is clear. But, the revelry comes to a sudden stop as I go to leave and the secretary says, “Don’t go yet, Mr. Coot; we have to schedule your next appointment.” I shriek, and run out the door.    

March 18, 2015 Article

The Old Coot explains doctor talk.

By Merlin Lessler

“This is going to kill! It will hurt so bad, you’ll wish I knocked you out first!” That’s something you never hear a doctor say. Instead, you hear, “You’ll feel a little pinch, then a slight burning sensation.” And, no matter how many times you’ve experienced this rouse, you still believe it. “This time,” (you say to yourself), “It will be true.” How can it not? Right there on the wall, framed in polished oak, is the physician’s college diploma. And then, there’s that language switch from English to Latin to explain your condition. Who can question the credibility of someone speaking Latin, a stethoscope hanging from their neck, a diploma on the wall and all decked out in a white lab coat? It kills, this little pinch and the slight burning sensation that follows, but we play our part in this one-act play, by saying, “That wasn’t so bad. ” It’s only when we get to the parking lot that we admit the truth and scream at the top of our lungs as we writhe in pain on the black top.

We’re introduced to this technique when we’re naïve little kids. It starts with all those shots (the ones that will feel like a little pinch). My rude awakening came when I was four-years old; I had my tonsils out. The big lie that day was, “They are going to wheel you into the operating room, place a flower on your nose; you’ll take a little sniff and fall asleep.” I believed it! Until the nurse strapped a mask to my face and that horrible odor of ether engulfed me, removing all the possibility of a fragrant flower lulling me to sleep. I was also promised all the ice cream I could eat after it was over. It was five full days before I could swallow a small sip of water without shrieking in pain.  

But, the little white “medical” lies have their place. Unfortunately, they go away when old coots are the patients. They don’t pull their punches with us. - “I don’t know what that lump is on the side of your nose; I’ve never seen anything like it.” – “You say it hurts when you bend over; don’t bend over. – “Do you have a living will; you should. And soon.” -  “And, while you’re at it, you might want to sign a do-not-resuscitate order.” -  Or, my favorite; the one I’ve heard at least 25 times over the last fifteen years, “You have to expect that at your age. “ But Doc, I wasn’t “expecting” any of this stuff,” I whine, as he helps me to the door with a fistful of new prescriptions. Then I read the warning label and realize the magic pills are the biggest lie of all!