A pain in the all-over
Believe it or not, when I awakened this morning, I didn’t hurt. I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles. Not one muscle (what few remain sagging from my body) ached or throbbed or even twinged.
Probably many of you are grinning like the proverbial possum, reminding yourself that you knew the day was coming when I’d lose it all and fall apart like one of those fast food toys from Taiwan.
Well, I’m not that far gone yet. Close, but not yet. I’ve probably got a couple days left.
The rest of you are nodding wisely. You know of what I speak.
Why? Because you’re close to or have entered the original Twilight Zone that some perverted joker has laughingly labeled “the Golden Years.”
Believe me, I don’t know why they call them Golden.
Jumping out of bed-oops, I mean, struggling out of bed in the morning with an ankle throbbing with gout so bad you can barely stand on it and a frozen shoulder screaming with pain when you try to brush you teeth isn’t my idea of “Golden Years.”
Some wag defined the “golden years” as having enough money, good health and a meaning in life.
Who knows? I suppose that’s as fitting a definition of “golden years” that we can find.
I’ve wondered from time to time if the “Golden Years” might perhaps be that time in life when men decide to divulge the deep, dark secrets they’ve managed to keep from their wives over the years with varying degrees of success.
Oh, you know the secrets, guys.
A sharp fella by the name of Ty Wenger who has probably already weathered his “golden years” discusses those secrets in a current womens’ magazine.
The more I read of his secrets, the more I was inclined to agree with him. Remember that time you were with your wife and a well-endowed young lady passed, (with low, low cleavage) and your eyes followed. Instantly, you were forced to field the question “Were you looking at her?”
Well, sure you were, but you’d never admit it.
Maybe the “golden years” are when you can instead reply, “Sure I was. What about it?”
And she’ll overlook giving you a three-week deep freeze, knowing full well looking is all you can do.
Then again, perhaps the “golden years” becomes that chapter in you life when you can make selfish decisions without feeling guilty.
Like a story one of my old cronies told the other day about walking down the street and finding a wallet with $2,000 in it. “I wanted to keep it, and then I wanted to return it. So,” he said, “I asked myself what would I want if I had lost the wallet. I realized then that I’d want to be taught a good lesson about being so careless, so,” my friend added with a smug grin, “I stuck the wallet in my pocket.”
Now, being quite moral, I questioned his decision until he called the waiter over and ordered another round for the table, on his tab.
I don’t know. Maybe there is something to his opinion of the “Golden Years.” Maybe they should be viewed as that period when the older folks re-adjust their way of thinking. I believe it was the late George Carlin who, in one of his few family appropriate remarks stated that when he was a kid, he prayed every night for a new bicycle.
God never sent one.
Then one night after Sunday church, he realized the good Lord didn’t work that way. So, what did he do? He went right out and stole one, then prayed for forgiveness.
I tell you, the “Golden Years” are just as challenging to us old coots as pimples and acne are to teenagers, and if anyone ever bothered to do a survey on the two age groups, they’d probably discover that one was no more successful than the other.
After all, remember what Bette Davis said about “old age.” It ain’t for sissies.
Now, pass the pain pills, please.