Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Aging -- one, two, three

Sitting on the porch this morning, I began to ponder the wonders of aging.

For example, I wondered, how long has it been since I had a beer for breakfast?

Were those wild days really real? Or just a ffffft in my memory synapse? Is my mind playing make-believe with itself? Do I embellish stories because I used to be in politics? Detractors would say it’s because I used to be a reporter. Ignore them.

(Insert segue here.) I did remember that any weekday morning is better grocery shopping than the weekend. Nobody’s there. Well, a few. There are always about a dozen old Buicks playing bumper cars as we jockey for the few handicap-parking slots available.

You can always tell the temperature by watching Social Security recipients step outside. If it’s below 70 degrees, we wear a stylish windbreaker. Some of us, however, always sport heavier outerwear for expeditions to the frozen food section.

(Segue Two.) This week, I got back on my bicycle. Took longer to recover from winter surgery than I wanted. And, I got soft. I always brush my teeth before riding in Minneapolis. You never know – it might be Mary Tyler Moore giving you CPR.

This confuses the Mystery Woman. She thinks pulling the plug has something to do with jerking the power cord from my laptop so I will carry out the trash.

(Segue Three.) I drink a lot of water, too. Keeps my veins plumped up.

Not nearly as much fun as I think I remember the beer was.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

George,
Beer for breakfast? George you are a wussy! I once had a lady friend who in the morning brushed her teeth and then gargled with Scotch. Now that was a lady.

Ken Martin said...

Beer for breakfast? Maybe you never did that at all. Maybe you just stole the idea from Kris Kristofferson's song, Sunday Morning Coming Down:

Well I woke up Sunday morning,
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
An' I shaved my face and combed my hair,
An' stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

I'd smoked my brain the night before,
On cigarettes and songs I'd been pickin'.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid,
Cussin' at a can that he was kicking.
Then I crossed the empty street,
'n caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken.
And it took me back to somethin',
That I'd lost somehow, somewhere along the way.

On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.

In the park I saw a daddy,
With a laughin' little girl who he was swingin'.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school,
And listened to the song they were singin'.
Then I headed back for home,
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin'.
And it echoed through the canyons,
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.

On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.

Do do do do do do do do,
Do do do do do do do,
Do do do do do do do do,
Do do do do do do do.

To fade

Now, George, don't you fade away.

The South Plainsman said...

Ken, George has already faded, just not away.

At his age he will soon have to eat oatmeal at every meal.

With a bib.

Second childhood.

I know, I'm there, too. LOL

I can vaguely remember beer for breakfast at times when we were still drinking at breakfast.

Its amazing any of us survived to three score and ten.

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