Last updated on February 11, 2024
When I was young, I hated listening to older people, especially older cops I worked with. They always discussed their various ailments, medications, aches, pains, and pains in the ass. I always swore I would never be one of them.
Guess what? I got old and became them.
Whenever I get together with or talk to friends or relatives, we discuss our ailments, aches and pains, medications, and pains in the ass. The old injuries came back to haunt us in our increasing decrepitude. Some are only living or ambulatory through the wonders of chemistry and medical engineering.
Think about this. Doctors are now like auto mechanics, replacing worn-out parts, charging a left lung, or grandchild, and forcing a second mortgage on the house. Shit, you’d think they were changing the oil on a Rolls.
Most of us are an argument, stressful moment, or flight of stairs away from the widow-making heart-a-stroke. Some of us are a drunken fall away from a broken hip or other bone injuries. We try to take life easy versus taking risks. We only have two speeds, slow and stop.
I hate going to wakes, weddings, or reunions. I and others do not recognize each other. We got fat, skinny, bald, gray, stooped, wrinkled, and other age-related afflictions. Women approach asking if their walker makes their ass look fat.
Men with bad fake hair constantly pet their heads as if they were dogs. Hell, someone should give them a belly rub, but they probably would not be able to get up off the floor.
Some of these people do not accept the fact they are old. Did you ever see people with walkers do the Hokey Pokey or Macarena at a wedding? It is something else to watch men and women dance with the urns of their loved ones. The only problem is they or you cannot figure out if they are dancing with their late spouses or pets.
I really hate the remember when questions. Hell, most of us can’t remember what we had for breakfast, let alone what happened thirty or forty years ago. Some ask specifically because they have no memory.
The guys are the worst. They compare notes on the effectiveness of their erectile dysfunction drugs. Sometimes the women do too. Well, they do not compare. They complain.
Sometimes there are reunions at restaurants with great food. Many of us can no longer eat the food they serve, or we must medicate ourselves to counteract sodium, cholesterol, or other stuff we should not eat.
There are the pill counters. They look at their watches, pull out containers, and start counting the various pharmaceuticals they must take to keep them alive, awake, and thinking. I swear, some of these guys, and they are always guys, take every pill the pharmaceutical companies produce.
Some wear various appliances and devices. They look like androids. Elbows, knees, feet, or hands with weird-looking framed devices or boots. Some have devices and slings from recent surgeries. They limp and gimp all over the place. It is hilarious to watch them try to dance like they were young, flailing their armored arms and legs without killing each other.
Some pull out their phones, scrolling all the pictures of the grandkids. Others who constantly complained about their spouses to the point of wanting divorces are now oh so happily married and lovey-dovey. Yet years ago, they were screwing everyone else’s spouses.
I do not believe that any of us thought living to a ripe old age would be such a major pain in the ass and fodder for comedy. I would rather stay away from events and sulk in my own pathetic misery. I do not need to witness the misery and foolishness of others.