AGING GRACELESSLY

Somewhere Between Rock and Roll, Bad Decisions, and the First Cup of Coffee

Growing older while refusing to grow up

Proof that maturity is mostly a rumor. AI generated portrait by Pierre Chenet, found on Pinterest

I've officially completed my 68th lap around the sun.

No turbulence yet and no sign of burning up on re-entry, but the warranty has definitely expired. Sixty-eight and still going strong—well, at least in spirit. I consider myself a dedicated environmentalist, doing my part to correct climate change one bite at a time. Damn cows. The planet comes first.

It’s said that with age comes wisdom. Me, I find the more I learn, the less I know. Being somewhat of a reprobate (who am I kidding—somewhat?), and well past my best-before date, I still take pride in my ongoing efforts to carry on sinfully. It’s like I’m working a two-strike streak on Bowling for Dollars, still dreaming of taking home Ed Kilgore’s vault.

At heart, I’m just an over-aged kid with a bartender’s ear and an amateur novelist’s eye, still chasing pirate laureate status. It took me a while, but I’ve finally figured out that life isn’t about avoiding bruises—it’s about collecting enough scars to prove you showed up for it. Anthony Bourdain put it far better than I ever could: "Your body is not a temple, it’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride."

Funny how the topics of conversation evolve as we age. What starts as girls and cars drifts into careers and investments, then retirement plans, ailments, and medication schedules. After a recent health scare, I’ve noticed one subject rarely gets much airtime: the big "D." And no, I’m not talking about moisture-absorbing Depends. We’ll save that gem for another day, although it might explain how some fellows can spend twelve uninterrupted hours on a bar stool solving the world’s problems.

But sooner or later, the big "D" wanders into the conversation. Maybe it’s in the wee hours of the morning. Maybe it’s after a few—or several—beverages. Eventually the Grim Reaper gets a seat at the table.

How afraid are we of cashing in the winning ticket?

Ah, I see religion poking her head through the doorway.

For many people it’s terrifying. Others seem genuinely curious to find out what’s waiting behind Door Number Three. Or perhaps whatever Carol Merrill is pointing at on the showroom floor. Not exactly the moment for indecision, kids.

Me? When my time comes to hop on the bus, I hope I go down like a fat kid on a seesaw.

I’m not afraid of dying. I just don’t want to be around when it happens.

They tell us the soul never dies, so what exactly happens after we step into the bright light? Why is it that I picture myself stuck in some celestial purgatory on The Tomorrow Show, swirling the ice in a tumbler of bourbon while attempting to justify a lifetime of questionable decisions to a skeptical Tom Snyder?

Maybe Scotty is standing by the transporter controls.

Maybe we’re making that final sprint down the runway before taking a leap of faith into the unknown.

Or maybe we’re stepping through the Time Tunnel.

You pick the decade.

I’ll pick the spot.