The problem with being on the old age track is not really the aches, slower reaction times, or the wiry tufts of hair sprouting randomly from a dark orifice or warm fold of fat. No the real issue is that we don’t understand when the train is ‘officially’ scheduled to arrive. Of course we notionally know our caboose won’t run as fast … or run at all for that matter, and we seem to have an uncontrollable urge for Beano, buffets, bathrooms and bingo (in that order).
Oh sure everybody gets a few hints as to our ‘delicate condition’ by grabbing a glimpse of our jiggly jowls in a darkened computer monitor, or brushing that LAST mouth-bound real tooth in a Geritol bath. Oh yes and let’s not forget as our knees near the knobby stage, our hips don’t LIE right anymore, they just tick louder than a ‘tweeny-bopper’ popping gum in time to a cheap clock. Despite all that physical evidence, it’s still not quite enough to actually convince ourselves ‘mentally’ that soon we will be officially ‘OLD’ and make that monumental move from ‘cute to COOT’!
Though my senior status convinces most that my mindset is myopic, I beg to differ. The truth be told, it is my presbyopic eyes which are prone to flattening, as opposed to my head which is coned and fattening. So despite my obvious dimness and silver tipped noodle, I truly only need glasses for up-close activities like drinking liquid assets, culling caloric details from Lilliputian cell-phone menus, and converging the sun’s rays on the backs of ants.