Ripening Faster Than A Week-Old Avocado

 by George Beckerman

How can I tell? Well, I went into the kitchen to get something, and not only did I forget what it was, I was in the wrong kitchen. So I apologized to my neighbor and went home.

And it’s not just the memory. Hairlines recede more rapidly than the Colorado River. Trips to the bathroom far outnumber trips to the foul line. That of course would be if I was still playing basketball. Or jogging, skiing and tennis. My anatomy has rebelled against those activities. Couple more years and my calorie-burning will be limited to putting on my socks and shoes.

My agent told me that considering my birth certificate, from now on, when he submits me for a writing gig, it would be a good idea to slice all pre-2000 credits from my resume. Hey genius, that would leave me with almost no resume. Then I remembered that 2000 was the year I started getting mail from AARP. I guess that was exactly his point. Paraphrasing the Vegas slogan: “Whatever’s happening in my arteries, stays in my arteries.”

My problems escalated at the bank. The teller asked me if I really wanted to deposit $10 million into my checking account. Granted, I’m a little more unfocused than I used to be, but how the hell did those extra six zeroes wind up there? Embarrassed, I pretended it was a joke, which he didn’t find particularly funny and dismissed me with the same eye roll that my granddaughter unleashes when she sees me using my land line.

Distracted again, this time by it seems the hourly need to empty my bladder, I found a men’s room. As I confronted the urinal and started my usual senior trickle, someone else entered and pulled up alongside. He immediately hit the back of the porcelain with the force of a firehose (I miss those days) and was zipped and gone before I could wish him well. Three more young Turks came and went and I was still dribbling like Jerry West, oops, too dated, I mean Stephan Curry.

My dermatologist, however, had good news for me. Those blemishes on my arm are not melanoma. They’re age spots. I guess that’s what passes for positivity at this juncture of life. I shrugged it off and jumped next door to my ophthalmologist where I barely made it to the fourth line of the eye chart. One prescription change later, I was ready for lunch with my buddy Ben. Or bff according to this suddenly acronym-crazy universe.

Of course the current topic of conversation these days, regardless of generation is “Seen anything good on tv lately?” I confidently replied that I really loved that show with “what’shisname.” And the director what’shername did a fabulous job. When Ben asked me what network it was on, we spent the rest of the meal trying to find it on Google. It was good seeing Ben and I told him to send regards to what’shername, a.k.a, his wife.   

I was happy to make it home to my wife what’shername for an afternoon of uninterrupted sex. Yeah, right.  Since we’re both asleep before the ten o’clock news, even though we’ve napped before the five o’clock news, if we made love, we’d have to do it before the Today Show. Sometimes you’re so tired you say “Thank God the weekend is coming up,” then realize that it’s only Monday.

It’s a bit depressing when your phone contact list is filled with ologists and you’re older than most of their fathers. And I don’t know how I got to the point of yelling at people in their fifties to get off my lawn. But every so often you find something to be grateful for. This morning I was thrilled to discover a brown hair on the shower floor. Then my neighbor told me that he gave his dog a bath last night. So I toweled off, apologized and went home. Easy come, easy go.


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