I’ve realized recently that I’m rapidly approaching fogey-hood, and I have nothing to show for it. I’m simply older; not wiser, not more experienced, not more distinguished. Just older. As I rapidly approach the beginning of my 23rd year, it’s more and more obvious that it’s all going downhill from now on. Why now instead of my 22nd or 21st year? Well, it all started when I fell, just like when someone refers to an “old” person falling. There’s no good reason (I tripped on a baseball bat too many days ago, a product of my halcyon days of youth, a not too metaphorical symbol of the way my youth consistently laughs at me.), and just like with old people, my shoulder, which was what broke my fall, still hurts. The pain will go away but not the memory of practically being on my way to re-enacting an “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up” commercial. In fact, I should probably invest in one of those emergency signal senders for when it happens again.
And of course, There are the inevitable “hair” issues, whether its turning gray or being on its way to Costanza-itis. Gray isn’t distinguished, it’s just gray, especially in splotch form. Granted, it’s not there yet, but it will be. Next is arthritis; being that I already have a re-made knee, it will likely be ground zero for the future infestation. Even for my (also aged) peer group, the now less-than-annual football games create nothing other than increasingly serious injuries and weeks of recovery instead of the day or so of not that many years ago. (In other news, if anyone wants to see or participate in an age-based train wreck, come out to the South Mountain/Dodd athletic field on the Friday after Thanksgiving. That’s Nov. 25 for those of you who don’t believe in taking advantage of Indians.)
Getting Older receives one-and-a-half stars due to its inevitability, intransigence, and, uh, in-sucktitude. Why not zero stars? Well, I’m sure that something as omnipotent as aging has a lot of say in the karma department, so I don’t want to make it mad this early in the game.