I turned 52 Saturday. Growing older is the easiest thing I’ve ever done -- all you have to do is not die.
Fifty was traumatic. Because Hallmark needs to keep baby in shoes, the Big 5-O provides make believe social drinkers with an array of overpriced party favors. There was more than a tinge of disappointment when Preparation H was missing from other loosely sacked crap. I thought butt itch pellets were required protocol. Instead of letting this faux pas pass go unnoticed, I made a big deal about not getting suppositories. Quietly, Beloved snuck away, drove to May’s City and upon her return flung the yellow box at me, delighting the blotto social drinkers and adding a touch of short-lived reality to the pirate-themed affair.
Even I can’t imagine how sordid a Big 6-0 gathering of reprobates must be. Instead of brand name analgesics, does the lucky stiff get a used colostomy bag?
However, there’s nothing wrong with slowing down. In fact, I’m beginning to grow fond of short-term memory loss. Hopefully before long I won’t be able to remember names. Everyone will be Buddy or Sissy. Beloved will think long and hard about sending me off to Wal-Mart; (In my prime I was often disorientated when it came to purchasing the correct feminine hygiene product). Eventually the State will determine that my driving skills have deteriorated beyond all hope. Saddling unfortunate family and friends with the onus of ferrying me to Happy Hour, Mr. Hootie Coot will no longer be bound by the social contract. Keeping Buddy or Sissy busy at the blender, deaf to pleas that I please stop drinking, Karaoke lovers can expect to endure a very choppy rendition of “The Ballad of the Green Berets” or an equally haunting “D-I-V-O-R-C-E”.
Of course, it’s fuzzy house shoes and soiled sweats from now on. I’ll become a limping Philip Larkin poem and finally fulfill a particular high school guidance counselor’s prescient glimpse into my future.
Juan Don
Juan,
ReplyDeletePlease invite me now, before you forget, to your 6-0 party. I promise, as a gift, to provide adequate transportation to, but not necessarily from, Happy Hour. I also promise to join you for the inspiring chorus of "The Ballad of the Green Berets," though it has been a long time since I have bellowed out, "Put silver wings on my son's chest."
Having two boys dampens the enthusiasm necessary to do that lyric justice.
Duane
Duane,
ReplyDeleteYou're most welcome to attend, assuming that I am still above ground. Surrounded by all my favorite Buddys and Sissys, perhaps we can sing a duet. I'm leaning toward "Julie, Julie, Julie". Hopefully I'll have both upper and lower denture plate, which is perfect for that eerie whistling sound.