A few comments on Facebook the other day got me thinking. I know, this whole thinking thing is dangerous, but I risked it.
When my sons graduate from high school as part of the Class of 2020, I will be 52 years old. To some of you old fogies, that might not sound unreasonable, and I'm not typically the kind of person who gets all hung up on age, but I must say that I strenuously object to the whole concept of the fifties as an age range.
For starters, fifty is the first milestone age that sounds old. It's ridiculous to compare fifty to twenty, or even thirty, and expect it not to seem significantly older. But even when compared to forty, an age I reached several years ago, fifty has a ring about it that sounds like a somber church bell.
Take a moment to reflect on the two numbers: forty and fifty. Say them over and over in your head for a minute or two and then tell me that your mental image of a person turning forty doesn't differ dramatically from how you picture that same person turning fifty. Forty suggests a settling in to one's skin, a well-respected and hard-earned maturity, and a classy graying around the temples. Fifty suggests wisps of ear hair like out of control Q-Tips, an irreversible thickening around the waistline, and an I-just-looked-in-a-full-length-mirror understanding of why you can no longer wear the latest trendy summer shorts.
It doesn't help when Our Daughter throws out snarky teenage criticisms, like calling my latest choice in sneakers "old man shoes." Maybe they aren't flashy, or sexy, or cool, but they provide excellent arch support and they don't crowd my toes. All in all, a very practical pair of sneakers. So what if they look like I stole them off a night shift nurse at the hospital?
Back to the point, I suppose this age thing is all just a state of mind.
When I turned twenty it was a joyous occasion -- one year closer to legal drinking age! When I turned thirty, I was a new father and completely oblivious to anything other than changing diapers, thawing frozen breast milk, and figuring out how to assemble plastic children's toys with three missing parts and the wrong tools. When I turned forty, I proudly and declaratively announced it to the world: "I am forty!"
I just hope I can reach fifty with the same enthusiasm. Very likely I will, although I expect there will need to be a strong support system in place to keep my spirits elevated and help reaffirm my belief in the notion that I look good for my age.
Perhaps continuing to monitor the effects of the ravages of time on my old high school friends through Facebook will be enough to do the trick. Unlike many of those poor old bastards, I happen to have more hair on top of my head than I do growing out of my ears. For now...
© 2011 Mark Feggeler
Showing posts with label old people. Show all posts
Showing posts with label old people. Show all posts
Monday, September 12, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Getting Old(er)
"What are you doing?"
It was a fair question. The Italian was simply going about his day, probably hunting down his elusive iPod or glasses, when he came upon me lying on the floor in my bedroom. My back was pressed down on the carpet while my legs were as straight up the wall as possible, my right leg signicantly more bent than my left.
"I'm stretching out my hamstring," I told him.
He nodded and stared at me for several seconds before asking "Why?"
The honest answer, of course, is I'm getting to the age when simple things -- like crossing your foot under your butt and sitting on it for longer than ten minutes at a time -- can throw your back out for the rest of the week. In this instance, I was coping with the effects of having neglected to stretch either before or after my morning walk on the treadmill, which is what I told him.
"Oh," he said, and wandered away to continue with his life.
After swimming at the pool yesterday, my right shoulder was recovering from the shooting pain that followed the not-too-smart activity of flipping the kids out of their tubes. The boys weren't too bad, but Our Daughter is a full-fledged young adult. Why I thought I could flip her like she was still a 50-pound eight-year-old, I'll never know.
I was stretching my arm in several various poses that seemed to make the shoulder feel better when I noticed the Italian behind me.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
I explained to him how certain simple activities -- like lowering and raising the track of the foldable treadmill -- can cause more discomfort than an hour spent running at full speed on the darned thing. I explained how under certain circumstances, merely pulling a shirt over your head and twisting your arm in just that wrong way can send pins and needles shooting down to your fingertips and make you see stars.
"Oh," he said. I'm pretty sure was shaking his head when he walked away that time. It probably didn't help that I wasn't wearing a shirt.
Then today, while working in my office, I accidentally closed the desk drawer on my finger. I let out a little "ow" and gripped the tip of the pinched finger in my other hand. The Italian came over to see what my minor commotion was all about. He glanced down at my finger and then up at my grimacing face.
"What is it now?" he asked in a slightly disgusted tone.
It's going to be a long summer...
© 2011 Mark Feggeler
It was a fair question. The Italian was simply going about his day, probably hunting down his elusive iPod or glasses, when he came upon me lying on the floor in my bedroom. My back was pressed down on the carpet while my legs were as straight up the wall as possible, my right leg signicantly more bent than my left.
"I'm stretching out my hamstring," I told him.
He nodded and stared at me for several seconds before asking "Why?"
The honest answer, of course, is I'm getting to the age when simple things -- like crossing your foot under your butt and sitting on it for longer than ten minutes at a time -- can throw your back out for the rest of the week. In this instance, I was coping with the effects of having neglected to stretch either before or after my morning walk on the treadmill, which is what I told him.
"Oh," he said, and wandered away to continue with his life.
After swimming at the pool yesterday, my right shoulder was recovering from the shooting pain that followed the not-too-smart activity of flipping the kids out of their tubes. The boys weren't too bad, but Our Daughter is a full-fledged young adult. Why I thought I could flip her like she was still a 50-pound eight-year-old, I'll never know.
I was stretching my arm in several various poses that seemed to make the shoulder feel better when I noticed the Italian behind me.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
I explained to him how certain simple activities -- like lowering and raising the track of the foldable treadmill -- can cause more discomfort than an hour spent running at full speed on the darned thing. I explained how under certain circumstances, merely pulling a shirt over your head and twisting your arm in just that wrong way can send pins and needles shooting down to your fingertips and make you see stars.
"Oh," he said. I'm pretty sure was shaking his head when he walked away that time. It probably didn't help that I wasn't wearing a shirt.
Then today, while working in my office, I accidentally closed the desk drawer on my finger. I let out a little "ow" and gripped the tip of the pinched finger in my other hand. The Italian came over to see what my minor commotion was all about. He glanced down at my finger and then up at my grimacing face.
"What is it now?" he asked in a slightly disgusted tone.
It's going to be a long summer...
© 2011 Mark Feggeler
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Blue Hairs at the Pool
What is it about people that the older some of us get, the less tolerance and regard we seem to have for the boundless energy and manic happiness of youth and childhood?
I'm not talking about those times when you're worn out, you just want to drop somewhere to take a nap, but your kids want to play Twister on the hardwood floor or have you drive them to the store to rent a movie. Or even those times when a group of obnoxious kids (any age) are screaming, kicking, crying, vandalizing, or otherwise mean-spiritidly rough housing in a way that would make any normal person question the apparent lack of adult supervision or the need to call 911.
I'm talking about those times when the good-natured antics of teenagers, tweens, toddlers and infants have no relevance to your life other than they are happening in close proximity to you.
A baby crying for a few minutes, for instance, does not annoy me. I also am not annoyed by teenagers grouped together in a public place making infantile jokes and laughing loudly, or children over-throwing a ball in a game of catch and having it bounce into my "zone," or kids peeking back over the pew in church to make faces at me. It's just kids being kids, right? We all went through those stages of development and now it's their turn.
I have to wonder, then, what happened to the little old ladies who frequent the pool at which we swim each summer.
To start with, and this has absolutely nothing to do with children, they seem to firmly believe the pool was built just for them. The rest of us are no better than the flies and mosquitoes that zip in and out of their ears, nose and eyes as they recline on the sweat-inducing plastic straps of the pool furniture. These ladies wedge themselves into the same exact spot in the shade of a roof overhang, regardless of who is already positioned there. They have no problem inching right up behind you, or shoving in front of you and blocking your path to the water and your view of your children as they play.
Even if they get their beloved area without constrictions, once perched you will hear them talking loudly about how terribly close they are to the bathroom doors. They don't seem to object to the actual bathrooms, in fact I think they like being close to the convenience of the bathrooms. No, they seem to object to the fact of other people using what they clearly like to think of as their personal toilets. You'll hear them muttering amongst themselves as people come and go, especially if any of those people are children, which brings us back to the topic at hand.
The other day, while lounging in the hundred-degree shade of the overhang, the first of the blue hairs arrived and crammed up so close behind us it dredged up memories of my last prostate exam. She was alone, so the mumbly grumbling was kept at bay for a little while. When the second blue hair showed up, the game was on.
"I don't know why they have to put all these tables under here," Blue Hair #1 said, motioning toward two tables piled high with pool toys, drinks, snacks and coolers.
"It leaves us no room," said Blue Hair #2, shooting sparks as she scraped a metal lounge chair along the concrete to position herself so close to my lovely wife that she could easily have assisted with her next pap smear. She looked into the pool where fewer than ten children were quietly playing. "There goes the pool today."
When the pool house gate opened a young family entered. Young mom, young dad, and two very young and well-behaved children filed in in a neat and orderly fashion.
"Hmph," grunted Blue Hair #2. "Here come even more of them."
I would hate to be the grandchild of any of these women. I can only imagine their homes are like candy-covered fairytale cottages stocked with fattening cages and ovens perfectly sized for the next visit from Hansel or Gretel.
I'm not sure exactly what these two old battle-axes thought they were buying into when they first moved to the area but apparently someone told them the neighborhood was a child-free compound, blessedly removed from the wanton frivolity of youthfulness. I suppose some people just want to grow old, shrivel up, and die surrounded by others like them, all hurrying on their way to the cemetery in their matching electric golf carts.
As I have grown older I have, from time to time, caught myself behaving in a curmudgeonly way. It is at these time that I reflect on the Blue Hairs at the pool and work hard to atone for my own poor behavior.
I was once one of three boys who would wrestle in the living room every night after dinner. I was once a teenager hanging out in the mall and laughing loudly with my friends. I was once a drunken college student stumbling my way through a residential neighborhood back to my apartment from the downtown bars. None of it was mean-spirited, and none of it was (intentionally) destructive.
I hope I can keep the curmudgeon away as I grow older. I'd hate it if, thirty years from now, someone is blogging about my lack of tolerance.
ⓒ 2010 Mark Feggeler
I'm not talking about those times when you're worn out, you just want to drop somewhere to take a nap, but your kids want to play Twister on the hardwood floor or have you drive them to the store to rent a movie. Or even those times when a group of obnoxious kids (any age) are screaming, kicking, crying, vandalizing, or otherwise mean-spiritidly rough housing in a way that would make any normal person question the apparent lack of adult supervision or the need to call 911.
I'm talking about those times when the good-natured antics of teenagers, tweens, toddlers and infants have no relevance to your life other than they are happening in close proximity to you.
A baby crying for a few minutes, for instance, does not annoy me. I also am not annoyed by teenagers grouped together in a public place making infantile jokes and laughing loudly, or children over-throwing a ball in a game of catch and having it bounce into my "zone," or kids peeking back over the pew in church to make faces at me. It's just kids being kids, right? We all went through those stages of development and now it's their turn.
I have to wonder, then, what happened to the little old ladies who frequent the pool at which we swim each summer.
To start with, and this has absolutely nothing to do with children, they seem to firmly believe the pool was built just for them. The rest of us are no better than the flies and mosquitoes that zip in and out of their ears, nose and eyes as they recline on the sweat-inducing plastic straps of the pool furniture. These ladies wedge themselves into the same exact spot in the shade of a roof overhang, regardless of who is already positioned there. They have no problem inching right up behind you, or shoving in front of you and blocking your path to the water and your view of your children as they play.
Even if they get their beloved area without constrictions, once perched you will hear them talking loudly about how terribly close they are to the bathroom doors. They don't seem to object to the actual bathrooms, in fact I think they like being close to the convenience of the bathrooms. No, they seem to object to the fact of other people using what they clearly like to think of as their personal toilets. You'll hear them muttering amongst themselves as people come and go, especially if any of those people are children, which brings us back to the topic at hand.
The other day, while lounging in the hundred-degree shade of the overhang, the first of the blue hairs arrived and crammed up so close behind us it dredged up memories of my last prostate exam. She was alone, so the mumbly grumbling was kept at bay for a little while. When the second blue hair showed up, the game was on.
"I don't know why they have to put all these tables under here," Blue Hair #1 said, motioning toward two tables piled high with pool toys, drinks, snacks and coolers.
"It leaves us no room," said Blue Hair #2, shooting sparks as she scraped a metal lounge chair along the concrete to position herself so close to my lovely wife that she could easily have assisted with her next pap smear. She looked into the pool where fewer than ten children were quietly playing. "There goes the pool today."
When the pool house gate opened a young family entered. Young mom, young dad, and two very young and well-behaved children filed in in a neat and orderly fashion.
"Hmph," grunted Blue Hair #2. "Here come even more of them."
I would hate to be the grandchild of any of these women. I can only imagine their homes are like candy-covered fairytale cottages stocked with fattening cages and ovens perfectly sized for the next visit from Hansel or Gretel.
I'm not sure exactly what these two old battle-axes thought they were buying into when they first moved to the area but apparently someone told them the neighborhood was a child-free compound, blessedly removed from the wanton frivolity of youthfulness. I suppose some people just want to grow old, shrivel up, and die surrounded by others like them, all hurrying on their way to the cemetery in their matching electric golf carts.
As I have grown older I have, from time to time, caught myself behaving in a curmudgeonly way. It is at these time that I reflect on the Blue Hairs at the pool and work hard to atone for my own poor behavior.
I was once one of three boys who would wrestle in the living room every night after dinner. I was once a teenager hanging out in the mall and laughing loudly with my friends. I was once a drunken college student stumbling my way through a residential neighborhood back to my apartment from the downtown bars. None of it was mean-spirited, and none of it was (intentionally) destructive.
I hope I can keep the curmudgeon away as I grow older. I'd hate it if, thirty years from now, someone is blogging about my lack of tolerance.
ⓒ 2010 Mark Feggeler
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