On Being Almost 85

  

On Being 85

I joke that it’s a misprint, that I’m really 58. Ojala! Would that it were so.

I feel the same as always, just creakier. But if my health problems are only musculo-skeletal, that’s good.

I remember what my acting teacher, Jean Shelton, told us. How does a king act? Answer: the same as he always did; it’s how others treat him that is different.

I’m 85, and others treat me differently.

People on the street call me “sir,” which is perplexing. OK, I’m all for respect, but “sir” can also resonate as “you’re old.” Do I really look that old, I ask myself.

If I’m interested in a woman, the husband doesn’t mind, I’m 85. Not that that happens outside of my mind.

I’m not a threat to anyone, except those who will inherit. Instead, I’m a source of interest who those who now stand not to inherit. All of a sudden, I’m a valued alumnus. Why does the development officer want to lunch with me? To get my ideas? Only insofar as they coincide with my will and testament. To get my wisdom? I will always think it’s feigned. If the state will take 40% of my estate above a certain figure, how much can be “saved” by willing it to a charitable entity? I’m sure I’ll hear.

I’m in good health and good shape. That’s good for those who really love me. Those who don’t, and those who do, can all marvel at my good fortune in genes and habits and just straight out good fortune, period. The time I didn’t fall. The time I fell but didn’t hurt myself. But it’s all a matter of time – time, that mother-fucker time. They says that time marches on, for a reason. “Marching” implies a certain implacable steadfastness, so it’s an appropriate word. I wonder why this is so. We take it for granted, we are born into it, somehow we have been organized into energy gathering entities that fight entropy, but not time. If we want time to freeze, we can look into entering a black hole, I guess. Freezing – that what they say when they edit film, don’t they? There, freeze right there! Who would want to freeze? That’s not a great way to stymie time. But what other way? There are all sorts of new longevity units at medical institutions. Extend good health, put off dying. Worthy objectives, but time-limited. I guess time started at the Big Bang. Universes that don’t have a Big Bang must not have time, either. But what do they have instead? Or is “instead” somehow a time-bound term? Without time, can there be alternatives, if nothing is happening? Doesn’t “happening” imply time?

I walk. I walk my ass off. When I was younger it was all in the future. I exercised all the time in games, in swimming, in something. My family always had sports. Activity and sports were in our SOP. Now I walk and lift some weights and do deep knee bends and “keep in shape.” I keep it up. But I dream of playing basketball and in the dream, I find myself unable to dribble and just standing still on the court. Maybe frozen. O My legs won’t move. I pass the ball to my little sister Kathy and hope she can carry on, but it doesn’t look like she can. Maybe let’s not take the dream as metaphor, maybe I just need to get out on the court and try to dribble some, even to shoot a little. I missed my chance this trip to Hawaii. Next time. Or maybe do it at home. We’d all be better off if we followed our dreams.

I read historical fiction, in French. I keep my mind exercising. I write. I text. I talk. I act as though time isn’t passing. Good luck with that. I’ll just have to settle for looking good for my age and being called sir. And talking to the stray wife here and there.

Actually, I’m still 84 for four more weeks or so. Live it up!