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I've thought of his maxim quite frequently as of late. It could be that I turned 43 recently. It doesn't take Stephen Hawking to figure out that 43, numerically, now places me in my mid-40s instead of early-40s, since 43 is closer to 45 than it is to 40. That's squarely in the category of middle age considering the average life expectancy for men is about 76 - 79. Despite being a bit irritated by the fate of facts, I'm beginning to see the Old Man's words sprouting fruit.
I have given up on having hair like Fabio or abs like an Abercrombie Fitch model. The hair fell out long ago, and I'm not trading in one six pack for another. If my clothes don't match, well, that's your problem, not mine. I WILL wear my bright blue Crocs in public with shorts, even though it makes me look like a white version of Urkel who rides the short bus. Yet, despite these red flags of aging, I refuse to dive into the morass of the mirror-less or tread into the troope of the tactless.
I look forward to the opportunity to grow old with my wife, have grandkids, and hopefully emulate so many of the wonderful characteristics I witness in the elders in our community. But until I have crossed the threshold of lucidity, there are certain things about getting old in which I will not participate. While I could type feverishly about bus tours to Branson, eating dinner when most people are finishing lunch, and striking up conversations with strangers while sitting on benches at the mall, my main fear involves the uncontrollable desire to discuss bodily functions.
I hail from the genteel southern tradition of keeping certain things to oneself. Some things are simply better left unsaid for fear of exposing oneself to pity or ridicule. Or making people want to vomit. We all know that certain things, sounds and odors emit from our orifices from time to time. And since we know that there are exits, why enter them into conversation?
Evidently it's part of the aging process for some to talk about how things are ... moving. What foods irritate that process. How things performed on the choir's recent trip to Atlantic City. The number of times they, um, well, work, in one day compared to how they were before the war. That Bernice has found Metamucil adequate, yet Clara has deemed Citrucel a wondrous addition to her flax seed regimen. Don't get me started on the topic of "consistency." Bottom line: if you do it behind a closed door and it involves Febreeze, it doesn't need to be discussed.
The irony in all of this is that by the time you get to 70, a lot of hopefully joyous things have happened in your life. Talking points, shall we say. With a lifetime of events and emotions from which to cull chat, there has to be a more lively topic at the dinner table. For example, how great the yams are at Cracker Barrel, and that they taste even better before the crowds get there at 4:30.
I look forward to the opportunity to grow old with my wife, have grandkids, and hopefully emulate so many of the wonderful characteristics I witness in the elders in our community. But until I have crossed the threshold of lucidity, there are certain things about getting old in which I will not participate. While I could type feverishly about bus tours to Branson, eating dinner when most people are finishing lunch, and striking up conversations with strangers while sitting on benches at the mall, my main fear involves the uncontrollable desire to discuss bodily functions.
I hail from the genteel southern tradition of keeping certain things to oneself. Some things are simply better left unsaid for fear of exposing oneself to pity or ridicule. Or making people want to vomit. We all know that certain things, sounds and odors emit from our orifices from time to time. And since we know that there are exits, why enter them into conversation?
Evidently it's part of the aging process for some to talk about how things are ... moving. What foods irritate that process. How things performed on the choir's recent trip to Atlantic City. The number of times they, um, well, work, in one day compared to how they were before the war. That Bernice has found Metamucil adequate, yet Clara has deemed Citrucel a wondrous addition to her flax seed regimen. Don't get me started on the topic of "consistency." Bottom line: if you do it behind a closed door and it involves Febreeze, it doesn't need to be discussed.
The irony in all of this is that by the time you get to 70, a lot of hopefully joyous things have happened in your life. Talking points, shall we say. With a lifetime of events and emotions from which to cull chat, there has to be a more lively topic at the dinner table. For example, how great the yams are at Cracker Barrel, and that they taste even better before the crowds get there at 4:30.
To be honest, I can't wait to see how it shakes out when I get older. Heck, it'll finally give me an excuse to stop wearing hats to cover up the skin yamaka on the back of my head for fear that it makes me look 53 instead of 43. Plus, not only am I going to wear Crocs all of the time, I'm going to do it with dark socks. And I won't care, which is a freedom those pesky youngsters won't have.
