First off, don’t get me wrong, life is really good....but, sometimes, life can suck worst than a one pound lemon. I’m starting to get wrinkles all over my body now, and the only smooth skin I have left is the top of my bald head and the bulbous moons of my butt. My favorite recliner is starting to groan when I sit down and I can hear the snap and pop of washers and little bolts as the chair gives way from metal fatigue. When I shave, on those rare occasions, it seems that there’s more to shave now as my sagging neck flab looks more like that of a Humpback whale when it gorges it’s gullet on sea krill. My wardrobe looks like the stuff they heap on the half price table at the Goodwill store and most of my shoe styles can be found on auction under E-Bay collectables.
I use a cane when I take walks now, but only to defend myself from vultures, hungry coyotes and teens. And as I stumble along, I can hear people make their whispered comments as I walk by, like....“Bless his heart, still walking at his age,” or “Don’t make any noise to spook him, else he might drop dead in front of our house!” Yea, stuff like that. Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy life and look forward to many more months of it....it’s just that most people, now a days, have limited space in their lives for those creeping up on 70. The closest I’ll ever come to dancing with some young lady, at my age, is only if I sit down and stick a twenty into her thong. Having a conversation with people is also difficult, even the folks at the Wal-Mart customer service desk duck behind the counter when they see me coming. Sure, I got a tendency to babble on and usually after I’ve recapped my life up to the Reagan years, they have either dozed off or snuck off. It’s all demoralizing. When I go to see my doctor, he feels around to see if I’m turning cold yet or he smells to see if I’m getting rancid, then prescribes more medication and then charges me $300 for still being alive. I already know the Walgreen’s pharmacist by name and even send him a Christmas card each year and he in return gives me coupons for stool softeners and enemas. We have a bond of sorts.
Wifey fusses at me all the time for what I eat or how I wear my clothes or for dropping the “F” bomb when a Jehovah's Witness comes to the door. But I know she cares. Once in awhile she will wear a sexy Hawaiian muu muu in the evening to get my furnace kindled, but, by bedtime, I’m not really in a tropical mood and sleep is more exciting to me than some erotic luau on the Sealy Posturepedic beach. Sadder still, she’s usually snoring before me. Like I said before, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to still be alive with all my wit and most of my memory still in tack. Sad though, I understand Elvis died....didn’t even know the man was sick!