I’ll just come right out and say it.
I don’t want to get old.
And by old, I don’t mean the inevitable state of physical and mental decline that awaits all of us.
I’m enough of a realist to accept that.
There are no Botox treatments or hyperbaric oxygen chambers in my future.
At least, I don’t think there are.
No, what I’m talking about here is the old-age mindset.
The attitude.
And the curious phenomenon by which people of such mind relish the opportunity to complain to anyone about their various ailments.
They positively delight in sharing the gory details of every failing body part, abnormal growth, and creaking joint, as well as the various medical procedures intended to correct them.
It’s the damnedest thing.
And it happens everywhere.
“Yup, there I was, sitting on that goddamn table with my ass hanging out of that gown,” explained the guy in the waiting area at the local Walgreens pharmacy.
He was probably eighty, sitting next to another octogenarian.
We were all there to get shots.
I’d just had another milestone birthday and was eligible for the shingles vaccine.
Which had me a little freaked out, to be honest.
They don’t give those things to kids, you know.
If you’re in line for a shingles shot, I have bad news for you.
Even if you don’t consider yourself old, you can’t exactly call yourself young.
I would have been fine to skip the whole thing.
But I’d had chickenpox as a kid, which is apparently borne of the same virus that causes shingles and remains dormant in your system for the remainder of your life.
When I was a kid, if someone in your house came down with chickenpox, all your siblings were kept close by, so the virus would spread.
That way, everyone got chickenpox at the same time, and your parents could get the damn thing over with.
Which, by today’s standards, seems about as good an idea as bloodletting was to treat a cold a couple centuries ago.
But what do I know?
So, I was hanging out at Walgreens on a Friday afternoon with the other seniors, listening to these two guys go on and on about their various ailments.
It was like a sport for them.
And the more they talked, the more excited they got.
The one guy continued, “And I’m not lying! I went in there for a checkup, and I came out with an appointment to get my hip replaced. My hip! Of course, I’d already had one knee done . . .”
The other gentleman nodded along, approvingly.
“Yup, yup,” he said. “That’s how they get you.”
And then he offered one of his own experiences.
“I went in to get a funny-looking spot on my back checked. Looks fine to me, I said, but okay. The doctor, she says she wants to get a sample. So, she cuts off this little piece with some wire cutters and sends it off somewhere.”
But, of course, that wasn’t the end of the story.
“Few days later, I get a call from the doc’s office, and the lady says the whole thing has to come off. But instead of going back to the same office, I have to go to this other place,” he explained.
And the other place was not a doctor’s office, but some kind of surgical center.
“I get in there, and there are these bright lights and all kinds of beeping machines. I mean, are they taking a freckle off my back or removing a goddamn kidney?” he asked rhetorically.
It was a little disconcerting for the gentleman.
But it gave him a story to tell.
And that’s all that mattered.
He probably would have preferred they’d taken out his kidney, if only to give him something better to bitch about.
I get that.
The truth is, everyone loves a little sympathy.
When I was a freshman in high school, I broke my arm snowboarding.
I had to get a cast that ran from my knuckles to my armpit.
And it was the best damn thing that happened to me that year.
“What the hell happened to you?” people would ask me.
Well, you know, I was carving this mean frontside turn, and I hit a patch of ice. Went down pretty hard, I’d tell them.
And the doctor had told me I’d nearly fractured a growth plate in my elbow.
At least, I think that’s what he’d said.
It didn’t really matter.
I used that detail to embellish my story, explaining to people there was a chance my broken right arm might grow to be a few inches shorter than my left.
Which I’m sure was complete bullshit.
But it made for a better story.
And that was the whole point of having a broken arm in the first place.
It was a great thing then.
But life accelerates as you exit childhood, and sickness and injury become huge inconveniences.
Working, living, functioning adults don’t have time for that stuff.
I’ve largely avoided the medical establishment for years, except for routine physicals.
The human body is a marvel in its ability to heal itself.
Which is why the first, and usually only thing I do when I experience any ailment, is ignore it.
It’ll work itself out, I figure.
And it usually does.
I’d like to continue in this vein indefinitely.
Why?
Because I don’t ever want to seek attention or amusement again by regaling people with stories of my physical ailments.
I don’t want to get that kind of old.
I want to get Tony Bennett old.
I want to belt out duets with Lady Gaga when I’m ninety.
Yeah, baby!
I want to get Queen Elizabeth old.
And give audiences to heads of state well into my ninth decade.
Right-oh!
I want to get Charlie Munger old.
And be the billionaire right hand to a Titan, able to move markets with my witticisms as I approach the century mark.
That’s how you do it.
So, for now, I’ll do what I can to keep myself healthy and maintain a life of maximum vigor.
I’ll try to get more sleep, but probably won’t.
I’ll tell myself to drink more water, even while I’m pouring myself another cup of coffee.
I’ll keep working out and skip rest days, even when I probably shouldn’t.
And I’ll continue to adhere to a strict, Paleo-Atkins-Vegan-Carnivore diet.
Or whatever’s currently in fashion.
Yeah, I’ll do what I can.
And please . . .
If you ever encounter me at Walgreens waiting in line for a shot,
And, unprompted, without even knowing you, I launch into some dissertation on hemorrhoids, incontinence, or bad breath,
Do us both a favor,
And tell me to shut the hell up.
Like, immediately.
Thank you.