The Things I Used To Do

Ageing for me has never been a gradual shift of opinion or perspective. There’s been no overwhelming concept of wisdom washing over me. Sure, I’ve learned things, but I think I’ve always had the good sense to recognize that while I have the ability to master complex areas of thought, that life is too short to chase a passing fancy down a rat hole. One can make a good living as a mechanic, surgeon or lab manager. I am not leaving this world as any of those. I gave up poking around under the hood of my car in my 20’s. Later than most, but good enough. I can change my oil, air filter, spark plugs and even tackle belts and hoses if the car is old and simple enough. Fairly early on I had the wisdom to pay people to do those things. I don’t know if I could reap any benefit from school anymore. Maybe. Not med school. Age has a more subtle way of letting me know that it’s made my acquaintance. It’s jarring to know adults who talk of 9/11 as a childhood event. Favorite teen songs are tripe from – oh, I don’t know – a couple of years ago. Or 15. Nowadays, I recall distantly moving my neck freely up and down and standing upright without a dull ache. I have learned over the last few years that age is a constant companion. A houseguest that slowly becomes annoying, and then just moves in. It’s here, and it’s too late to do anything about it. Because it’s getting late. Just yesterday it seems I could spend Sunday evening on the phone with Dad. He would ask how I was doing, and that part was important to him. You could hear that in his voice. The phone would be passed to my brother. Our deeper conversations happened via email or calls that weren’t for the whole lot. The Sunday call was catch up. Mom would ask of the kids, and none of us would talk about my other brother. If he were there he’d be in the background muttering. And after a while I would hang up, and think of when I could see them again. Scheduling is tough. I was cleaning the garage when my dad died. I had given permission to pull the plug on him the day before. The call had been both quick and too long to come, but it did. Both of my brother’s deaths had been via odd jarring phone calls. Mom is still here, but I’ve prepaid the funeral expenses. When I was younger I was never a huge athlete. I could run a decent clip before what – with age – would be revealed as asthma would shoot me down. I’ve put on a few pounds since dad died, as my jogging experiment triggered ankle and hip injuries. I hoped the doctor would find some easy therapy, but the repeated concept was to ease up and back into it. I’m not 25. I just think that way. I still want to travel, to wander far off places and not be thought of as an old guy or worse and on old guy who doesn’t think he’s old. I want to walk to the library, go fishing, push a shopping cart around the supermarket, go to a movie with my son. I want my son to be a boy maybe a tad longer than he’s going to be. I don’t want to sit in hospitals or funeral parlors. I don’t want to think my next car could be my last. But wanting is nice. The last few years have shown me that death does walk beside me. Age is already inside me.