Yesterday I turned the big 5 – 0. Damn that’s old.
It’s ½ of 100. Half a CENTURY. I’ve lived FIVE DECADES. Twenty five years, twice. Geeze.
It’s not the number that bothers me. Forty, fifty, sixty, thirty. It’s just another day. But it is more about the aging of my physical being.
At 4:50 AM on my birthday morning, I was at a gas station by the airport trying to fill up for a busy day ahead. I could read the screen asking if I wanted a car wash. I did not. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a pair of glasses in my car so I couldn’t find the “no” button. I had to restart the transaction three times before I finally pressed something that would allow me to move on. So dang frustrating!
Last weekend we were going to a wedding so I wanted to clean up a bit. Of course I showered and shaved, but there’s something about a special event that makes you feel like you need a good grooming. So I got the expanda face mirror out and a pair of tweezers. This hair pulling utensil was given to me as a gift. It actually has a light on it. Between the mirror and the random hair spotlight, nothing goes unnoticed.
I plucked the pom-pom sprigging from my ears, and it hurt like mess! Who knew you could grow an ear toupee?
I remember my granddad’s ears. He got to the point he shaved them, just like his face. They turned gray. Can’t wait for that genetic hand-me-down.
I then pulled out five eyebrow strands that were four times longer than their peers. How does that happen? Where do these mutant follicles come from? Did I accidently splash Miracle Gro on them when watering the plants? If I don’t pluck, my children hound me, beating down any sense of self-esteem I might have developed since I last saw them.
“Dad, you look like Albert Einstein. It’s time to mow your brow! Oh, and look at your ears. Gross!”
My hip pops when I walk up stairs. I’m gonna have to wait until I get on Medicare to get that thing replaced. What if I get in the doughnut hole?
You know you’re getting old when you dread cutting your toenails. It becomes such a chore.
I have to find time to sit down and somehow figure out how to get my toe close enough to my hand to make the transaction. It wasn’t until my upper 40’s that I realized my toes were so far from my hands. It really is a very long distance.
And pretzeling my leg into position is not the only issue. My pinky toenail on the left side has double developed over my lifetime. Like it has two times the thickness of any of my other nails. Like bullet proof glass.
The good news is you couldn’t puncture the end of Mr. Pinkie with an ice pick. Nuclear war? He will survive. By sixty I’m gonna need yard shears to ready for a special occasion.
This is like senior citizen puberty – suberty.
And AARP. Couldn’t they mail the application a month or two AFTER your birthday? You’re cruising along, all is good, and then you open the mailbox and there it is. An envelope that essentially says Hello Old Fart!