33,661,440 Minutes…

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Somebody’s granddaughter

When I get older losing my hair,
Many years from now,
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings bottle of wine?

If I’d been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door,
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I’m sixty-four?

There are 33,661,440 minutes in 64 years (don’t believe it? remember there are, on average, 365.25 days in a year!). I’ve now surpassed that ridiculously huge number by more than 12,240 additional minutes. Ugh. Though, as has been said so often by so many, being sixty-four undeniably beats that irrevocable, insensate  and subterranean alternative.

I was conceived in late summer of 1947 and born in May of 1948. Those events are now lost to memory. After time spent idly as a floating fetus, then diaper filling infant and rampaging toddler, I decided to spend the next sixty years growing ever older until I reached  my present wrinkly decrepitude. Along the way I adopted liberal secularism (so people would think I was smart and not just another southern redneck idiot!), detoured into a couple of marriages, picked up two useless college degrees, made a disastrous foray into local politics, enjoyed my fifteen minutes of cut rate fame, became a lothario, cad and bounder, lost over a hundred pounds then gained it all back plus more, becoming fat but not necessarily happier, got plastic choppers, and found myself  lusting after adult women young enough to be my grandchildren. Luckily for them – and sadly for me – while the libido was willing the flesh was weak (and considerably more shrunken than in my youth).

 Thank God I still have my hair!

I find myself talking too much. Us antique codgers love to tell stories and will often regale the same listener with the same story several times. In sympathy with my fellows, I indulge them by laughing at their anecdotes every time they repeat them to me. This is particularly true if my fellow old fart is a judge or other officeholder. I suspect they indulge me in the same fashion. At least all my drugs are generic.

When I was a baby I was fed bland, mushy baby food. As I grew my meals became more adult, and by my teenage years I feasted  on milkshakes, burgers, sugared soda, and fatty pizzas. I never gained weight even when I tried and tried. When I graduated high school I tipped the scale at 120 pounds.  I am now reversing my childhood progression. At this point my doctor believes anything containing fat, sugar or salt is a deadly poison.  The approved choices are now salad (no dressing), uncooked vegetables and fruits.

Thank God I still ave my hair!

My feet hurt. My right thigh and shoulder hurt.  My legs get stiff. My hands ache. My belly sags. Hair sprouts from my nose and ears. New wrinkles arrive on my face with regularity of German trains. I get up to pee two or three times a night and flirt with flatulence during the day.  My medicine cabinet grows ever more crowded. But at least all my drugs are generic…

The one thing which comforts me in my old age is this: you, dear reader, if you manage to survive, will be, sooner than you think, in my perilous position.

But you may NOT have any of your hair…

UPDATE: If, by chance you are even older than me, I don’t want to hear about it!

FLICKR GROUPS

Elderly’s portraitsGrowing Old Older People in Poverty – Elderly Nudists         

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Photo by  Danila Panfilov, remixed by me, subject to this creative commons license

Danila’s Top Fifty

Read all of VISIONS

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