I’m not a big fan of getting old. After the halftime performance of the Super Bowl, I realized that I’m not as nimble as I used to be and fell into deeper depression.

When I saw those scantily-clad women dancing and climbing on poles at their age, I thought there was hope for the older generation. Since getting up from the recliner is an issue, I realized I may never be able to shake my hips like those women. The closest I’ll get to that is walking around town in a Speedo climbing the statue of Mayor Hambley, but I’m sure I’ll get arrested for indecent exposure.   

After my hip replacement, six weeks and counting, I feel older than I should. I can’t exercise the way I used to, I’m gaining weight like a college freshman and my grey hair is getting more predominant. That on top of this lovely weather makes me want to take a nap. 

I was in an elevator the other day, which by the way, if you are in an elevator you need to practice proper elevator etiquette. Proper etiquette is, if you are standing in front of the buttons, it’s implied that you ask people which floor they want so you can push the push the proper button. If you have no intention of pushing the buttons for others, you need to get out of the way. 

I hopped on an elevator and assumed the responsibility of button pusher. Some guy in his mid 40s jumped on and I asked, which floor?  He said, “Two please, sir.” I said, “When you say sir, I look for my dad, please call me Jeff.” 

I sulked all the way to my car, which confirmed my getting older. In the back seat is the walker,  a cane and the portable poop contraption that I was supposed to use after surgery. It looks like a supply van for a retirement home.

The poop contraption is supposed to be used because, after hip surgery, you can’t really bend too far; it enables you to sit a little higher so you can do your business. Nurse Ratchet, my wife, wanted no part of that nonsense because she was not taking part in cleaning the unit after use. She said I would only be able to use it once, as she would throw it out after the first use. I learned what true grit was when I had to go on the regular commode. 

Growing old gracefully takes a lot of guts. Some people are comfortable with getting old, but not me. I don’t like being called old man or that my mobility is limited. I hate the aches and pains. I hate that I feel like having dinner at 5 p.m. and then go to bed right after “Jeopardy!” I hate that I watch “Jeopardy!” I’m starting to understand when my grandfather became crotchety and belligerent.

To all us old folks, let’s toast with a glass of prune juice and get to bed early so we can rise and shine to endure another day of aches and pains. 

Thanks for reading the News-Express.

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