I don’t need reminders that I’m getting old.
That doesn't mean I don't keep getting them.
My youngest daughter, who’s 25 this year, really nailed me on the “old” thing.
She wanted to go on a shopping trip with her sister and mom, and her car wasn’t big enough to seat everyone comfortably. I suggested she use my Chevy Equinox. But I had a caution for her.
“When you come back and you want to put the car in the garage,” I said in my fatherly way, “if my motorcycle is sitting there, don’t run it over.”
She looked at me like all kids look when they’re addressing an addled parent.
“You mean you don’t want me to run over that big shiny red thing with the mirrors and chrome and windshield that you can see from a mile away…you don’t want me to run over that?” she asked. “Right?”
“That’s pretty much the picture,” I said.
But she wasn’t listening anymore.
“You aren’t getting old, are you, Dad?” she asked.
Maybe a little.
The signs are there.
Like a lot of guys my age, I have some daily friends in the land of Pharmacopeia. My doctors have decided I can live to a ripe old age when I won’t care about a lot of things I care about today if I’ll just take three pills for blood pressure.
These pills all have warnings on them about getting dizzy. And light-headed. And drowsy. And in the literature, one drugmaker suggests that I might hallucinate a little. And that my sex drive might be affected (like going into “Park”). And I might have a sudden urge to pee. Or not.
Oh, joy.
You could read all this stuff and think you’re back in the 60s dropping acid…dizzy, light-headed, hallucinating, then sleepy. Or you could look at some old dude in a nursing home, staring vacantly into space, because he’s dizzy and light-headed and drowsy and on “Park”…and wonder if he’s on the same stuff you are?
Another thing is that my name has changed in the last couple of years. I have suddenly become “Sir.”
I haven’t been knighted. I’m not a member of the peerage, nor has the Queen bestowed on me the Order of the British Empire. But I hear “Sir” a lot.
And it isn’t just young people who use it.
I was in the line at Walmart, one item in my hand, and the lady in front of me had a basket full enough to equip a Boy Scout camp for a week. She turned to me, saw the one item in my hand, and said. “Sir, you can cut in front. I’ll be awhile.”
That was nice of her.
But when she said “Sir,” I wanted to turn around and see who the important person was that was standing behind me – the guy who deserved to be called, “Sir.” For a lot of years of my life, “Sir” was reserved for my father.
Now it’s me.
When my daughters were first dating and were brave enough to bring their boyfriends to the house, I liked it when they called me “Sir.”
“They better darn well call me ‘Sir,’” I said to myself. “Shows respect.”
Now it’s not so much respect as it is acknowledgement that I’m getting a little weary in stance and a bit weathered in appearance. And I can’t remember where I parked my car.
I was going into a store and an elderly couple – well into their 70s I think, was headed for the same door. I held it open for them.
“Thank you, Sir,” said the woman. “Yes, thank you, Sir,” added the man.
I stood there, stunned. I’m at least 15 years younger than either of them, and they’re calling me “Sir.” Just how bad DO I look?
Frankly, if the couple had said, “Thanks, Dude,” I would have been flattered and pleased that I had done a good deed, and probably smiled, to boot. But now I’m thinking that I really need to get into the gym, and quick.
What I don’t want to do is take any more pills.
That doesn't mean I don't keep getting them.
My youngest daughter, who’s 25 this year, really nailed me on the “old” thing.
She wanted to go on a shopping trip with her sister and mom, and her car wasn’t big enough to seat everyone comfortably. I suggested she use my Chevy Equinox. But I had a caution for her.
“When you come back and you want to put the car in the garage,” I said in my fatherly way, “if my motorcycle is sitting there, don’t run it over.”
She looked at me like all kids look when they’re addressing an addled parent.
“You mean you don’t want me to run over that big shiny red thing with the mirrors and chrome and windshield that you can see from a mile away…you don’t want me to run over that?” she asked. “Right?”
“That’s pretty much the picture,” I said.
But she wasn’t listening anymore.
“You aren’t getting old, are you, Dad?” she asked.
Maybe a little.
The signs are there.
Like a lot of guys my age, I have some daily friends in the land of Pharmacopeia. My doctors have decided I can live to a ripe old age when I won’t care about a lot of things I care about today if I’ll just take three pills for blood pressure.
These pills all have warnings on them about getting dizzy. And light-headed. And drowsy. And in the literature, one drugmaker suggests that I might hallucinate a little. And that my sex drive might be affected (like going into “Park”). And I might have a sudden urge to pee. Or not.
Oh, joy.
You could read all this stuff and think you’re back in the 60s dropping acid…dizzy, light-headed, hallucinating, then sleepy. Or you could look at some old dude in a nursing home, staring vacantly into space, because he’s dizzy and light-headed and drowsy and on “Park”…and wonder if he’s on the same stuff you are?
Another thing is that my name has changed in the last couple of years. I have suddenly become “Sir.”
I haven’t been knighted. I’m not a member of the peerage, nor has the Queen bestowed on me the Order of the British Empire. But I hear “Sir” a lot.
And it isn’t just young people who use it.
I was in the line at Walmart, one item in my hand, and the lady in front of me had a basket full enough to equip a Boy Scout camp for a week. She turned to me, saw the one item in my hand, and said. “Sir, you can cut in front. I’ll be awhile.”
That was nice of her.
But when she said “Sir,” I wanted to turn around and see who the important person was that was standing behind me – the guy who deserved to be called, “Sir.” For a lot of years of my life, “Sir” was reserved for my father.
Now it’s me.
When my daughters were first dating and were brave enough to bring their boyfriends to the house, I liked it when they called me “Sir.”
“They better darn well call me ‘Sir,’” I said to myself. “Shows respect.”
Now it’s not so much respect as it is acknowledgement that I’m getting a little weary in stance and a bit weathered in appearance. And I can’t remember where I parked my car.
I was going into a store and an elderly couple – well into their 70s I think, was headed for the same door. I held it open for them.
“Thank you, Sir,” said the woman. “Yes, thank you, Sir,” added the man.
I stood there, stunned. I’m at least 15 years younger than either of them, and they’re calling me “Sir.” Just how bad DO I look?
Frankly, if the couple had said, “Thanks, Dude,” I would have been flattered and pleased that I had done a good deed, and probably smiled, to boot. But now I’m thinking that I really need to get into the gym, and quick.
What I don’t want to do is take any more pills.
Share:
.jpg)
0 Comments to "OUT OF MY HEAD - August 17, 2010"