Remember when you had little kids running
around the house, learning to talk, learning to walk/run and learning to use
the toilet? The cute toddler would come running up to you and say “Daddy (or
Mommy) I went poo-poo in the potty and it was real big.” Or something similar to that. Well folks,
someday (hopefully) you’ll live long enough to learn just how much old age is
like those toddler years. A good movement will be the highlight of your day.
Any movement at all will be noteworthy.
Yesterday my dear wife and I were in a
checkout line where senior citizen discounts are offered. My wife said to the
clerk “Make sure we get the senior discount.” The clerk looked at me. “And how
old are you sir?” For the life of me I could not manage to say the three
syllables that she wanted to hear. “Se-e-e-v-en-en-t-t-t-y” I finally managed
to croak. When I was in my sixties, even when I was sixty-nine, I could utter
my age. But something happened when I entered the seventh decade. It was like
going through a very large, very thick door into a room full of darkness. Some
of my friends and relatives made it to this age and didn’t seem to be bothered.
Others never did make it to this age (lots of those folks) and of course they
never had to worry about it. But here I am, spending far too much time
considering the realities of actual old age.
And as I consider these realities I see
(as in the example in the first paragraph) just how many things seem to be
repeats of stuff that happened way back in early childhood. Get a knee or hip
replacement, as so many seniors seem to do, and be treated to the ordeal of
learning to walk again. Lose your teeth and learn the delights of soft foods as
you wait for new dentures. Relate an interesting story or joke and learn that
you don’t know the words to describe just how big the thing you seem to need in
the punch line really was. Language is once again a mystery.
And we won’t mention bodily processes and
abilities that have faded even more than our command of language. Of course,
there are many seventy-plus seniors who have retained most of their physical
and mental faculties. A few have daily exercise regimens that include running,
walking, weight lifting or swimming. Still others pursue the more sedentary
sport of golf which mostly consists of driving a golf cart a few feet for the
next poorly hit fairway shot. I suppose enough swings could count as a form of
exercise. But, for many of us, daily exercise is just too much trouble. In my
case mowing the lawn with my push mower and weed trimmer, splitting and
stacking firewood, shoveling snow and slow ambles on rural dirt roads will have
to be enough. If the exercise doesn’t have an immediately visible result (other
than sweat and swearing) then I don’t have time for it. Also, I need my physical activity to
a keep my mind at least minimally occupied. If my mind is idle then it wanders
back behind that big thick door I mentioned earlier.
Spending too much time peeking into dark
corners of that hidden room is too scary a business. It’s in there that we
consider questions like these. Burial or cremation, what’s the best choice? Is
the will up to date? Should I write my own obituary and eulogy? And those are
just the practical questions. There are also the big metaphysical questions. Is
Heaven more like farm country or Las Vegas? Is Hell more like Los Angeles or
Las Vegas? How long are the lines to those afterlife existences? Will I have to
say my age out loud? And what about judgement? Is judgement more like being on
Judge Judy’s show or more like pleading a case at the Supreme Court?
Well, I’m going to go do some exercise
right now and try to prolong my time in this mortal place. I think I’ll bend my
elbow a few times while holding a gradually diminishing container of goodness.
How’s that for a metaphoric closing?
Now have a fine day.
