52

Today I turned 52. This is not one of those landmark birthdays like turning 40 or 50, but it does make me realize that I’m edging closer to being a senior citizen. I’m not sure when one officially moves from middle age to seniorhood, but for now I’m saying it’s age 65, or perhaps when my testicles reach knee level.

My friend Joel said I should take the long view of things. For example, this birthday means I’ve lived a mere 1/20 of a millennium. Hell, I’m just a kid! Nevertheless, I’ve decided to start writing my age in Roman numerals, so I am LII. Somehow that looks better.

Clearly it’s getting harder to call myself middle-aged, because I don’t plan on living to be 104, nor do I have any desire to. I just got back to town from visiting my mother in her nursing home up in Amarillo, and seeing all the drugged-up elderly folks parked in their wheelchairs drooling on their chests did not cast a positive light on being over 80. I don’t fear death, but I hope it comes in a sudden and relatively painless and/or fun way, such as dying in my sleep, severe alcohol poisoning from partying too hard or perhaps a coronary while having sex with Lady Ow-Ow. (Speaking of Lady Ow-Ow, I think we’re almost through. She says I’m not really masochist enough for her because I can only take 43 strokes from her cat o’ nine tails. C’est la vie.)

They say you’re as young as you feel, and I still feel about 35. Well, except for my knees. I have a condition called chondromalasia in my right one, which means that when I go up or down stairs, it makes a noise like someone munching on Rice Krispies. And both knees hurt. Oh, and there’s my left foot. I had a Morton’s neuroma removed from it in December, and it still isn’t right. My limp is long gone, but it still hurts to walk. And let’s not forget my right shoulder, on which I had surgery a year and a half ago. It’s much better now, but I can only bench press about half the weight I used to. And my back hurts half the time. But other than that, I feel great!

My friends tell me I look younger than my years… except for my deepening crow’s feet, forehead wrinkles, and the turkey wattles that are starting to form under my neck. Although one of my young nephews in Amarillo told me I didn’t look a day over 60. Sixty! That’s when I hit him over the head with his Tonka trunk.

Still, I do get warm smiles from attractive young female grocery store clerks, who then ask if I need assistance carrying out my lightweight bag containing 10 items or less. What is that if not open flirtation?

No, I think the Angry Bald Man has still got it. Although I no longer remember what “it” is.

Home