The ‘Geezer Report,’ Episode 826

People often send me email notes, asking some form of this question: “How come you constantly write about how old you are?”

C’mon now. I do not constantly write about how old I am. For example, back in February, I wrote an essay that had nothing to do with my age. The topic was telephones, and I described those heavy wall phones with rotary dials, the kind everyone had when I was a kid. I also mentioned how much telephones have changed since then, and noted that people my age are often befuddled by the complexity of modern phones. Oh wait. Hmm, I guess I did write about how old I am in that column.

OK, well, back in 2019, I wrote an essay that did not once mention my age. I really can’t remember exactly what that column was about, since there are three main features about getting old. The first is that you forget things, and, uh, I can’t remember the other two.

There is a simple reason why I occasionally write about my age. (I am, of course, using the definition of the word “occasionally” that means: “Every single sentence.”) The reason is that inside every old person is a young person wondering what the hell happened.

You see, all of these weekly humor essays (or as some have noted: “weak humor essays”) are based on what’s going on in my life. And the main thing that’s going on in my life is the stunning realization that I’m not young anymore, and now I have to deal with it.

For example, for my entire adult life up until recently, I had exactly two medical professionals, a dentist who I visited twice per year for X-rays and a cleaning, and a general practitioner for a routine annual physical. Then, beginning in my mid-50s, I added to that list: a dermatologist, because I had a couple of skin cancer things; a cardiologist, because I had some rapid heartbeat episodes; a urologist, because my GP thought having a prostate the size of a regulation softball might be a concern; an ophthalmologist, because there’s something weird going on with my right eye, and I didn’t understand a single word she said, but I have to go back soon to see if it’s improved; an orthopedic surgeon, because my football knee started acting up after four decades of being reasonably problem-free; and a proctologist, because those colonoscopies aren’t going to perform themselves.

I remember being about 10 years old, and I was convinced my grandmother, who was in her 70s at the time, had always been an elderly woman forever, dating back to at least George Washington’s time. Then I saw an old black and white photo of my grandmother when she was barely 20. It blew my mind. “Grandma used to be YOUNG?! Really?!”

Yes, it’s true that old people used to be young. Even at my age, the vast majority of my life has been spent being young (well, at least being not old). So, this is a completely new experience for me. I get it that 10-year-olds (and certain 30-year-old coworkers) think I’ve been 65 years old forever, dating back to at least Abe Lincoln’s time. Gee whiz, I was only a kid when I met Teddy Roosevelt. 

Being old isn’t really so bad. It’s just a bit of a surprise. The best thing about being my age is that I don’t really care anymore what others think about me. So, no matter how many email notes I receive, I’m still going to write about what’s on my mind. And right now what’s on my mind is this: why did I just get up and come into this room?