Aging
“I’m NOT putting up with this. That’s ridiculous! I’m never going back to McDonald’s again!” I shouted to my wife after returning from a stop there several years ago. “They gave me the ‘Senior Discount’ for coffee without me asking for it.”
I hear people often say that “old age is not for sissies”. It’s true. It sneaks up on us until one day we simply accept it and get upset if the cashier at McDonald’s does NOT give us the Senior Discount.
My social life now is predominately with receptionists at doctors’ offices, the nurses, PA’s, and the doctor. If I go out with friends, I’m looking for a five o’clock dinner and home by seven. And that’s in the summer when it stays light longer. Don’t even call me to go out in the winter, I’m in hibernation with no desire to drive anywhere in the dark. Wait, what was I just saying? Oh yeah, social life. I recall whining and complaining to my son because the dinner that his fraternity planned for us on Parent’s weekend started at eight o’clock, and that was twenty-six years ago. The irony here is that the start time was EARLY for the boys. They went out at ten or eleven. Now, virtually every social event in which I am invited by my contemporaries is from five until seven or maybe six to eight. Even New Year’s Eve parties that I attend now end at nine.
I invited a friend who now lives in New Orleans to join another mutual friend and me for dinner recently when we were gathering for a funeral the next day. I told him to meet us at the Hilton restaurant at five-thirty. His flight did not arrive on time, but he sure gave me a hard time about the start time. I guess that seniors in New Orleans have a different eating schedule than a good ole boy like me, but shoot, I surely didn’t want to be driving home at all hours of the night, like nine-thirty. And the Early Bird Special expires at five-thirty.
Speaking of dinners with friends, I noticed a few years ago that the table conversations changed at some point. I cannot pin-point exactly when. Now, we talk about medications that we take, knee and hip replacements, is so’n-so still alive, Medicare Supplements, memory loss, can I borrow your reading glasses to see the menu, how nice someone’s funeral was, and of course, grandkids. I recall several years ago, before I had admitted to myself that I was indeed old, that my wife and I were at a restaurant where we had a cute young server with a beautiful, outgoing personality. She looked familiar, although I knew that I had never met her, so I mentioned that “I think that I went out with her mother”. Bedie, my wife, came back with no hesitation, “Maybe her grandmother, but not her mother”. Oh boy, that hurt. But after I did the math, she was right. I am much closer to her grandmom’s age than her mom. When did this happen?
Sometimes it’s the little things. On a Florida beach recently, for example, I sat in a beach chair covered with clothing to avoid the sun so as not to have to explain to my dermatologist why I had such a nice tan, reading a book. First, I slipped on my sunglasses, followed by one of several pairs of readers that I have. I know that I looked cute wearing two pairs of glasses, but, at my age, as they say, who cares, it worked. It was at that moment that I looked for a pair of tinted readers. Who knew that there are innumerable options for bifocal reader sunglasses? What a brilliant invention!
It’s the little things. Just last week, while riding in an elevator, a man, who appeared to be in his fifties, walked in saying to me “excuse me SIR”. Again, I’m not putting up with that. How rude can you get calling me sir? When I worked in a supervisory role at Belk Department Stores right out of college, the employees called me Mr. Jenkins. That was fine. It was not an age thing but simply respect for the position that I held. Or when I worked at the Cherry Point Marine Corps Air Station as “Head of Retail”, the young Marines who worked with me were heavy on the Yes Sirs and No Sirs. This is the culture in the military, and I appreciated it. But no, I will not put up with a fifty-year-old saying “Good morning, sir”. No!
It’s the little things. “Whatcha say?”, to which my wife says “never mind”. No, she said something, and I want to know what it is. She says that I can’t hear. I say that she mumbles in a low voice. Regardless, we never had this issue until the last few years. On a drive home from a recent trip, she speculated about the sex of our new grandbaby due in a few months. All I heard for sure was “six” not “sex”. So, my response was, “no, we’ll be home way before six”.
I’m back. I had to take a nap. Speaking of doctors’ visits, my standard line when I return and am asked how things went, I say “Fine, but the doctor said not to invest a lot in spring clothes”. That rarely gets a laugh. This leads me to a sad part of aging, which is funerals. Now, it’s not a funeral for parents or grandparents, now it’s for friends and classmates. Somehow, over the past few years, I have become the guy who officiates at several of these funerals. This is such an exceptional honor, while also a tremendous responsibility. I am the one who leads the family and friends through a last goodbye to someone we all love. How can I do justice to a person’s entire life? I am not trained, have no degree in theology, and the family puts all of this trust in me to lead a service that is respectful, humorous, that reflects the essence of who the person was and what they meant to so many. When asked to do this, I am overwhelmed from that moment until the final amen. I dread doing it, and always, afterwards, I am so thankful that I can do it and that my words are comforting to those in attendance, particularly the family. Invariably, directly after the service, someone will approach me, asking that I officiate their service when the time comes. My answer is “Let’s get it on the calendar, I’m booking up”. When I perform a service, I insist that it be a religious service and am sure to do a little preaching while I have the attention of so many. At one funeral that I led, an out-of-town guest of the deceased heckled me. Yes, heckled me at a funeral. Not really knowing what to do, I kept on talking as if he had said nothing, but he had. He obviously was not a believer and was not buying what I was selling. But, come on man, show a little respect. Just sit there and be quiet.
I always take extra time and preparation to be sure that I know the people in the family. I attended a funeral recently whereby the minister obviously did not know the deceased, or the family, and he tried to wing it. He mispronounced the name of several of the deceased man’s family. Although he at least pronounced the widow’s name correctly, he stumbled through the rest of them. Fortunately, this family has a good sense of humor and instead of getting mad or upset, they simply smiled, laughed to themselves, and continue to joke about it to this day. But really, I hope that I never fall into that trap and disrespect the family so.
I read an article once about a retired minister who said that what he misses the most is the funerals. As crazy as that seems, I believe it. The ones that I have performed has brought me closer to the families than I ever thought possible. It, in a weird way, makes me feel like a member of the family. With that said, I hope that I have officiated my last funeral—it’s simply overwhelming.
For me, I have not yet started putting together puzzles; nor am I doing crossword puzzles. I have not sold my two-story house looking for a single story one, or a patio home; I still look at pretty women, I just forgot why; I turn off the radio in traffic so that I can SEE better. My energy is shot, and not only do I forget why I walked into the kitchen, I forgot where the kitchen is. Bedie constantly starts a sentence with “Do you remember when…” and almost always my quick response is “No”. Before I get letters or e-mails pointing out that I have already mentioned in other essays some of what I wrote here; I just don’t remember what I wrote. I’m counting on the assumption that you do not either. Confirming that assumption occurred a couple of years ago. The town in which I live has what is called a “Dockside Devotion” every Tuesday night during the summer, whereby people gather at the waterfront to hear a short devotion. I am one of the presenters every year and one year I mentioned to my friend Starley that “I am concerned because I do not have a topic yet, much less have it written, and my turn was only three days away”. His wise solution for me was “to use the same one you did last year, no one will remember it”. I wonder if he was talking about the memory loss of the mostly older crowd in attendance or about my ability to deliver a meaningful message.
By the way, have you noticed that I am using size twelve font instead of the more standard ten or eleven? You’re welcome.
And as they say, I’m still upright, and above ground, so I have that going for me. I’m just happy to be here.