I must be looking weathered. Maybe not so much as leathery George Hamilton in the latest batch of Colonel Sanders commercials, but apparently I’m no longer a spring chicken.
The other day, a friend, upon reading my column, pointed to my photo, laughed and said, “Damn, man, is this picture from high school?”
Actually, it’s from maybe five years ago, but to him, I must look much older than the photo, so—since I don’t want to become a modern-day Ann Landers—next month I’ll have a new portrait taken. Brace yourselves.
Honestly, I don’t see the changes. The view of one’s self from within doesn’t change. For years, I’ve spent much of my time around young people, so I see myself as one of them. And thanks to the boomers, I have many friends who are older. Having older friends allows you to hold on to the illusion that you’re, by comparison, youthful, but it also gives you an up-close and sometimes frightening preview of coming attractions.
Dr. G., a fraternity brother who is 81, was telling me some of his realistic fears about aging recently, and I played down each and every one. I didn’t mean to be rude, but he was scaring me, knowing that just yesterday, he was younger than I am now. That means that in a few months, I’ll be as old as he is.
“You know,” Dr. G. said, “when I was in my 40s, I told my father how fast time was flying by, and he said, ‘Don’t worry; once you retire, everything slows down.’ When I was in my 60s, time was still flying, and I asked him when things would slow down. He said, ‘They won’t.’ ‘But you said they would.’ ‘Yeah, I was trying to make you feel better.’ ”
So, I guess we’re all just cruising at breakneck speed toward a cliff that is just around the corner, and no matter how much we try to slow down, there is no brake.
Paige, a waitress at Beef ’O’ Brady’s, asked me the other day if I felt old. I was quick to answer, “No.” I don’t feel old. Most days, I don’t feel differently than I did at 25, 35 or 45, but I am slower getting out of my recliner.
Jumping Jehosaphat, did I just admit to having a recliner?
I can’t be old. I’m seven years younger than Christie Brinkley, who apparently has found the brake but isn’t sharing the technology with the rest of us. I am seven months older than Kentuckian Tom Cruise, but I’m five months younger than Kentuckian George Clooney. I was born on the same day, three years earlier, as Olympic gold medal-winning swimmer Mary T. Meagher.
Seriously, while I am older than Kentuckian George Blanda, the oldest person to ever play professional football was when he last kicked for the Oakland Raiders, I’m still younger than Satchel Paige was when he last played Major League Baseball. And look at Gary Player, who has yet to retire from golf, and he’s 80 years old. Why would someone retire from golf? Heck fire, I’m seven years younger than Harland Sanders was when he franchised his first Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant.
As delusional as I may be about my spry state, as I close in on the “Double Nickel” later this month, I can no longer deny I am well into middle age. The odds are long on me reaching 110, and the evidence is certainly stacking up against me:
• Three of my four children have left home
• Two granddaughters
• Two bonus grandchildren
• Two granddogs
• One grandcat
• Bills and debts
• Aches and pains
• My conversational use of heck fire and the name Jehosaphat
• And my use of a recliner.
Readers, and those looking for a speaker for a church or civic group, may contact Stephen M. Vest at steve@kentuckymonthly.com