So much to know; so little time

I am in my fifties, and I am just beginning to realize that I may not be able to know everything before I kick off. If I see a new book on genetics I think, "That would be a fascinating field," before I remember I am on a rather short actuarial leash. 

The Centers for Disease Control say I only have another decade, while the government says expect 25 more years, probably just so they can keep collecting my taxes. Uncle Sam deals in hope, but he deals from the bottom of the deck.

I guess it is true what they say. Actually, my memory is starting to go, so I can't remember what they say, but you probably can. It's pithy. I remember that it's pithy. 

When I was 18, I was proudest when I won a track race. Now I am proudest in that moment when a person I know is approaching me but their name has evaporated from my brain pan, and I only have two seconds, and I'm toast, and then it pops into my head and I deliver. Small victories. 

My cuticles are fantastic too.

I thought memory problems were supposed to come later in life, but I forget where I heard that. 

I know people my age who sometimes refer to themselves as in the "second half" of their lives, and I would love to source that math. We are down to the final third, kiddos, and that's if we're lucky; that's if the Grim Reaper treats his gig like government work.

There is so much I still want to know about red pandas and kinkajous and the Byzantine Empire. Manatees. The films of Julie Christie. String Theory, fennec foxes, all 10 plays in Wilson's Pittsburgh Cycle. All of Dostoevsky and Twain. Fabergé eggs, dark matter, the composition of the Earth's core, why nature made naked mole rats nudists, the Fermi Paradox, why a whiff of my first girlfriend's shampoo on a total stranger can still put my heart in my throat. 

I know 25 years sounds like a lot, but not when you want to know everything. I may even have just enough time to come around to jazz, but I am cutting it awfully close. 

I mostly want to know why, since there is so little time, I spend so much of it checking whether anybody "liked" my post about that puppy chasing fireflies. Shouldn't I BE that puppy, aloft, reaching, gobsmacked with wonder?

. . .

Reaching senior discount eligibility triggers soul-searching

I am turning 55 this week, and my lust for senior-discounted scrambled eggs cannot be contained. Last week I could not afford the pancakes, the bacon and the eggs, but this week, and for the rest of my life, it's "the works" for me. I might even get the cut-rate toast. You used to have to wait until 65 to live this large, and by then you were usually dead.





Top 10 things I am looking forward to about being a senior:

10) Throwing freshmen in the dumpster again. Hey, I look like a harmless old fogie. Who's going to stop me from going on campus? "I'm a senior. It's what we do," I will yell at the police.

9) Water aerobics. Not doing them, just knowing that girls I went to high school with are out there somewhere doing them.

8) No longer having to dress as sharp. (My wife is laughing.)

7) Finally having the serenity to accept the things I cannot change (that the Eagles will never play my birthday party), to change the things I can (suspenders are slimming, right?) and the wisdom to know I will truly never have a shot at Claire Danes.

6) My head can finally spend the energy it is no longer using on growing hair to remember the names of people I know that I know.

5) Twenty-four sweet hours a day to blog about my ailments.

4) Ravages of time will seem less pronounced thanks to failing vision.

3) Compulsive need to keep up with the Joneses, thanks to fixed income, will be downgraded to a vague desire to keep up with the hijinks of that Kelly Ripa on that morning show.

2) With age comes perspective, and 10% off most donuts.

1) The deference and respect our society automatically confers on people of my advanced years, especially on the roadway.


My friends who have already attained senior status seem to be split about accepting discounts. Some ask for them openly, while others, when offered them based on their appearance, are offended.

What the cashier says: "Would you like to take advantage of our 10% senior discount?"

What my friends hear: "Do you realize how few days of life you have left on this Earth?"

The husband of one of my friends accuses her of just wanting him for his 10% discount. I say hey, there are worse reasons for staying together. Truth be told, we humans are, none of us, bargains.

 

50th birthday brings appreciation

Fifty years ago last week, two momentous things occurred—President Kennedy authorized sending troops and advisors into Vietnam, and I was born. We all know how well that first thing ended up, but the consequences of my half-century's exploits remain elusive.

I asked an old college friend who turned 50 last year what I should do to celebrate this milestone. "Look back," she said, "and appreciate this journey you've gotten to enjoy."

I was expecting "Get an epic tattoo," but O.K. Looking back I can handle.

Here then, based on my personal experience, is just a sampling of  things you can do on a well-rounded journey of 50 years:

Dance on stage with a fake beard glued to your face; hug many dogs; bust your chin open; cross a finish line first; panic in a cave; wonder why she doesn't seem to know you are alive; feel a kiss down to your toes; build a garage; see your child born; dress publicly like a chipmunk; cross an ocean; laugh multiple beverages out your nose; get dumped; fall asleep reading a kid a bedtime story; learn a lesson about gravity from a skateboard; endure "comedy" traffic school; roll down a grassy hill; rock a standing long jump; install a roof; stay up all night watching meteors; be disappointed by lofty shampoo claims; regret moments of unkindness; bogart M&M's; learn to play banjo; build your child's school project for him; dream about flying; vacuum up a kid's toy and convince yourself that "clunk" was a paper clip; breathe in a hot updraft from the Grand Canyon; run from a skunk; rescue a bee from drowning; get stung by a bee; mow lawns; hike deserts; overdo the garlic; attempt guitar; dance like everyone's watching; stand awestruck by hail; appreciate and mock modern art; lie in feverish wait for the mail; drink from an icy mountain stream; yell at TV commentators; revere the humble pancake; search for meaning; repeat; read a eulogy; suck a paper cut; drag a kite across a field; duel a neighbor with yard signs; clean up after rabbits; compare double-jointedness with relatives; change a flat on a freeway; get stepped on by a horse; wish you'd stayed in touch with a friend you heard died; break into your own house; take in the miracle that is lasagna; hear birdsong for what it is; be moved to tears by words on a page; hold hands until they're both sweaty; hold hands anyway. All these I have done.

The worst thing about turning 50, aside from constantly mixing up "prostate" and "prostrate" in casual conversations, is the wacky t-shirts: "50 is the new 30," "50 is the new...what was I saying?" and the vomitous "50. Aged to perfection."

If you ever see me wearing that shirt, you have my permission to stop me from ever reaching 51. Hit me over the head with that mug which says "At my age, getting lucky means finding my car in the parking lot."

In 1961, a slew of babies were born. Looking at all those writhing, swaddled forms, how could anyone know that some would grow up to be George Clooney, Barack Obama, Meg Ryan, Wayne Gretzky, Eddie Murphy, Fabio?

At 50 we are advised to get our first colonoscopy. At 50 we are eligible to join AARP. I am not even sure what AARP is, except perhaps the sound you make while getting your first colonoscopy.

My kids have classmates with parents who have died before 50. Some of my high school and college friends are already gone too. "Look back and appreciate this journey"?

I am. I do. I will.

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