The
Old Coot needs a good turn.
By
Merlin Lessler
There
is so much to learn about getting old – almost as much as it takes to get from
childhood to adulthood. The hardest part, and often the last truth to be
accepted, is that you made it. You really are old! It takes a lot of evidence before
it sinks in, to admit that your whole darn body is falling apart. Vast sections
of your brain too.
It’s
a 40 to 50-year process, starting as early as your 30’s; you try to duplicate a
teenage stunt, like hopping over a parking meter, something you might have done
with ease when you were eighteen, but now find your attempt has you walking
funny, sporting a skinned elbow, a twisted knee and a bright red face.
This
sort of thing happens again and again as you speed through time – you can’t eat
two Big Macs before bedtime without getting a stomach ache – you catch the
football your ten-year-old granddaughter threw to you but you can’t get it all
the way back to her. The list is endless, yet denial of the aging process holds
fast. Eventually, the real deal (the truth) hits home. I had two new eye
openers this year. I tossed a baseball in the air and tried to hit it with a
bat, something I could do with my eyes closed when I was a kid. Not anymore! Fifteen
tries; fifteen misses. Then, I tried to skip a rope, thinking I could do it for
time on end. It took a half dozen attempts before I managed to jump over it just
once. I finally made it to ten and had to quit. I was exhausted and on the
brink of toppling over.
Wake
up calls like that prove your declining physicality are just part of the
picture. There are also the mental lapses that become all too commonplace.
Like, the day you realize your two most frequent sentences are, “What’s that guy’s
name?” and What did I come into the kitchen for?” They just keep coming, those
physical and mental bits of evidence. I added a new one when I rode a horse last
fall for half an hour and ended up with a blister at the bottom of my spine. A
week or two later, my old friend, Arthur-itis, came for a visit and moved into the
middle joint of my left index finger. No big deal, I thought, I’m right handed.
Until I discovered I needed this finger to open jars and bottles, especially
the twist caps on beer and soda containers. I had to ask my niece, Ashley, to do
it for me at last year’s family Christmas Eve party.
I’m
on a new quest now; I need a human rotisserie for my bed. When I sleep in my
favorite position (on my side) my shoulder and hip ache after an hour and wake
me up. I’m forced to rotate to a new position. Corporate innovators could make
a lot of money if they would shift a little of their focus away from
self-driving cars, drones, video games and phone Apps, and start working on the
geriatric population’s needs. There are 44 million people of my age group in
the country. Many have the same need for a bed rotisserie as me. It’s a big
market. I’d do it myself, but first I need to get a good night’s sleep.
Comments?
Complaints? Send to - mlessler7@gmail.com
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