Too Old For a Midlife Crisis

 

I was two days out of knee surgery, lying on my bed in a Loratab-induced fog, when I sat up and uttered a sentence to my wife that I never imagined would come out of my mouth.

“Hey, I’m going to get my walker, go to the kitchen, and take a Flomax.”

The instant it passed my lips, I thought, “Sweet Moses…what did I just say?”

“I don’t say things like that,” I told myself. “Old people say things like that - real old people.”

Then the thought struck me like a geriatric thunderbolt.

 I am 72. 

And folks…that is old.

For example, if I was involved in a car accident right now, the local news anchor wouldn’t say, “A man was injured.”

No.

They’d say, “An elderly man was transported to the hospital.”

Operative word: 

Elderly.

That hits a little different when it’s aimed directly at you.

I’ve also noticed something else lately. Fifty-year-old people say “yes sir” to me now.

“Yes sir.” When did that start happening?

I still remember being the guy who said “yes sir” to people who were old. Now, I’m apparently the guy those people were talking to.

And here’s a sobering thought: I am older than Bear Bryant was when he died. Let that sink in for a moment.

Don’t try to soften it with that nonsense about “seventy being the new fifty.” Seventyk is not the new fifty. Seventy is the new seventy.

And what’s depressing - what’s really depressing - is that I’ve realized that I’m too old to even have a mid-life crisis.

You know what a mid-life crisis looks like for most men. They buy a sports car, start going to tanning beds, maybe ride around on a Harley. Then come the gold chains, the gym memberships, and the sudden urge to chase younger women who are far more interested in their net worth than their looks.

None of that appeals to me.

For starters, sport cars are too low to the ground. Getting in one would look like a slow-motion accident. I’d have to roll out of it like I was exiting a kayak. And once I got down there, I’m not entirely sure I could get back up.

I don’t want a Harley either. Not because they’re not cool. They are. But every time I see a guy my age riding one, all I can think is, “That man’s chiropractor is going to be very busy tomorrow.”

And tanning beds? My dermatologist would tackle me in the parking lot before I ever made it through the door.

Forget the gold chains, too. They would get in the way of my Life Alert. 

Now, I still go to the gym. But these days, function has replaced form. I don’t care about being a hottie anymore.

I just want to maintain enough flexibility and  upper-body strength to put on my sneakers without having to call in reinforcements. 

To heck with six-pack abs. I want Skechers  independence.

And honestly, I’m glad I’m not “out there” chasing women. That just sounds exhausting.

Besides, chasing women at my age would be like a dog chasing a car.

What would I do if I caught one?

I’d probably panic and ask if she knew a good orthopedic surgeon.

Besides, getting lucky when you’re 72 means the waitress says, “I went ahead and gave you the senior discount.”

And a little action means the Miralax is working.

So, there I stood in our hallway - well, sort of stood, leaning like the Tower of Pisa, using a walker to make my way to the kitchen, so I could take a pill that helps me with a post-surgery pee.

A walker.

Flomax.

And a knee that still sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies when I try to climb the stairs.

That’s when I realized something.

I don’t need a mid-life crisis.

I need an extended warranty. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see what time Gunsmoke comes on.

Does anyone know where my bi-focals are?