Getting Old(ish)
I’m 64 now, and I’m quite sure my getting on in years experience is nothing new. A quick survey of the years.
In grade school at St. Anthony’s, all my teachers were approximately 103 years old. Every single wrinkly one. I was convinced they had never been young, that they were just born old. Or maybe aliens. They referenced old-timey things like the wireless and the Marx Brothers. I wondered if they had pet dinosaurs, like the Flintstones. Surely all of them were knocking, no banging, on Death’s door.
My friends’ folks were slightly younger, maybe in their 80’s. They all talked about boring grown-up stuff. BOR-ING! They drove slowly and took a walk or sat on their porch for fun. “Hey look, there’s grass growing,” I wanted to yell, just to get their blood pumping.
High school was marginally better. Those teachers were maybe in their 60’s. Still old, yes, and definitely uncool. There was a younger level, the hipsters who had no idea how to teach but at least they weren’t boring. Try as they might, most teachers couldn’t understand the hardships of teenage life. Occasionally, those geezers served as a source of inspiration, but more often they were the butt of our jokes.
In 1987 (age 27), I was in Clintonville, WI for a family reunion. We drove past my dad’s high school. On a large banner strung in front of the gym grandly proclaimed Welcome Class of ’37 to your 50th Reunion! I wasn’t even ten years removed from high school; these folks were FIFTY years past their graduation! Half a century. The number seemed insane to me at the time. It may as well have been measured in lightyears.
Nanoseconds later, I’m a mere four years from my 50th high school reunion. I have boring conversations (not to me, of course), and I love a four-mile walk. I recall typewriters, Fotomat kiosks, and the wonder of a cassette player in the car. I bore my students with tales of growing up in the previous century. They listen silently, patiently, stifling the urge to sneak a peak at a Seth Phillips reel (yeah, I had to look that one up.) Young people, which is most of the population around me, all call me “Sir” or “Mister.”
Questions no longer asked: When does the cheap rate start for long distance calls? Do you have a dime for the payphone? Do you think Blockbuster has Ferris Buhler in stock? How do you program the VCR to tape the A’s game–something has to be on Channel 3, right? Can I use the encyclopedia for my research paper?
How in the world did this happen?
The younger version of me used to watch Cliff and Claire Huxtable shepherd their kids through various travails. Theo had his excuses and appetite. Denise always found trouble. Smart but sometimes foolish Vanessa. Rudy, so precocious, the oldest little kid on TV. Sometimes, I was Cliff, the unskilled handyman or dad sneaking food. Sometimes, I was Claire, balancing work and home.
But I was never, ever, the grandparents. Most of their lives in the rearview mirror, they seemed props on the stage, mouthing stories about dead singers or Depression sacrifices and hardships. Most times, the two oldsters were the only ones who could remember. It really didn’t occur to me I’d ever be them. Let’s get back to the kids and parents, I’d think.
Last week I caught a Frazier rerun. Marty, the aged dad, was in the hospital, and adult son Niles goes to visit him. Niles was shaken at the sight of his dad in a hospital bed, a stark reminder of the mortality of one he loved. I watched Marty console Niles. The awkward irony, of course, is the stricken old man is reassuring the healthy son. The entire time I watched, I was Marty in the hospital bed. Never Niles sitting uneasily in the chair.
The signs are everywhere. I have aches sometimes despite doing nothing to earn them. I can eat one major meal a day, and I’m good to go. I get AARP junk mail. Next Medicare will come after me, chasing like a lion preying on a wounded wildebeest.
I’m not old, not yet, anyway. Maybe old-ish. For cryin’ out loud, I’m only 64.
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Hmm…Dad was born in 1919. He would have been a senior in the Class of ‘37.
Was he?
I’m 12 years older than you and I never had any medical problems until I turned 65. Thank heaven for Medicare and free healthcare!
You’re entering the Ailment Zone. I pray you don’t get physically HAMMERED like I did. My legs can’t take me for walks anymore and I am blessed to survive cancer, diabetes and three bouts of Covid!
You were a good boy, abstaining from alcohol, smoking, drugs and idleness. That will serve you well in the coming years, Michael James.
Hurley men live long, 95, 91 and 89. You are still a puppy, an adorable one at that!
PJ
There are ailments, but just ailments so far. I will drink deeply from my gene pool and see how it goes!
“All my teachers were approximately 103 years old.” I laughed.
Things like your post make me consider retirement.
We are old, but not as old as Pat!
Balls
If you can consider it, you can do it. Take the plunge.
I find myself wondering the same things-just 12 more years worth. It’s wierd getting closer to 80 than 70.
That would be weird. I’m still grappling with the 60’s.
yea…the age thing. I think about this sometimes, so I didn’t NEED a reminder Mike.
I graduated college in 1976, so in 2 years it will be my 50th. When I was in college in ’76, I met someone who was there on THEIR 50th reunion. Yes, they graduated in 1926. Umm…what? Not only that, but they were born in 1904. Alrighhhty then! Come on man!
Hey, the good news is we’re still around to ponder these things. 50 doesn’t sound that old. For some reason a 50 year reunion of some adult event sounds pretty old to me. Someone who graduated in 1926–that dude was born near the turn of the century and lived through the Roaring 20’s, the Great Depression, WWII–you get the idea. I guess our kids and other yutes will think of us that way some day.