“The Fine Print”, by M.H. Schrader
What a Drag It Is Getting Old
(With apologies to the Rolling Stones)
I
found out some terrible news this past weekend. It’s one of those things that can really throw you for a whammy,
especially if you’re a women. In fact,
a multi-million dollar industry has sprung up to fight it. Gray hair, that is. I am going gray. I’m getting old.
And it shows. Not only am I going gray, I’m also going bald. What’s worst is that the hairs that I am
losing are not the gray ones.
It
must be a 30s kind of thing. Here I
was, cruising along the freeway of life, minding my own business, not a care in
the world. Then, I turn 30, and all of a sudden--wham! Potholes! Suddenly, the
ride is not so smooth anymore.
Think
of I-30 between Benton and Texarkana as the metaphor of life. The left lane is your life before you turn
30--relatively smooth, only a few bumps.
The right lane is your life after you turn 30--bumpity bumpity!
It
doesn’t seem that a day passes without at least one part of my body letting me
know it was there. Most of the time
it’s the right knee that I injured that has never fully recovered from surgery,
despite weeks and weeks of physical therapy.
More and more frequently it is my back, which hurts so much that I have
to walk around with a stoop that makes me look like Quasimodo. lately, it seems it’s both my back and my
knee!
One
thing I’ve noticed more and more is a change in sleep patterns. I need to sleep more. Lots more.
I remember times in my 20s that I could survive on 3 or 4 hours of sleep
a night . Consistently. And I really didn’t feel tired. Now, if I get 4 hours of sleep, I need to
drink about 12 cups of coffee the next day just to keep my wits (whatever ones
I have left) about me. No seriously--I
can easily drink a pot of coffee by myself.
Does it keep me awake at night?
Hardly. I’ve been know to drink
what Mrs. Schrader refer to as “Supermega Cup” (the equivalent of 6 cups of
coffee) and yet still get drowsy while driving at night. When my body says it’s time to go to bed,
then it’s time to go to bed, and no amount of caffeine can tell it differently.
When
does this occur, you may (or frankly, may not) ask? It is directly related to the amount of sleep I had the night
before. Eight hours means I can usually
make it to midnight. Those 4 hour nights? Eight.
And that’s if I am lucky.
The
fact that I am prone to fall asleep at eight causes Mrs. Schrader much
grief. If dinner ends at seven, that
gives one whole whopping hour in which I am actually coherent enough to
accomplish anything. And, as normally
occurs, I fritter away that one good hour.
Which is, of course, why it takes me ten months to redo a bathroom.
It’s
not enough that my available day has been compressed because I need much more
sleep than before. Oh no. Now, more of the day that I have left is
spent, well, taking care of business, so to speak. It’s like my bladder has shrunk from a watermelon to a pea. I used to be able to drive from Little Rock
to Saint Louis on US 67 without any problem.
(For anyone who hasn’t driven up 67 past Newport, places to stop are few
a far between, especially at night).
Not anymore. Now I’ve had to
switch to the Interstates. Yes, I will
concede, the Interstates are faster.
But, they also have many many more places to stop, too. And I am finding that that has become
important.
Ten
years ago, I could drive five hours and never have to stop. Not anymore! I went down to Dallas this past weekend, which is about a five
hour drive. I should clarify that--five
hours without stopping. When you stop
three times, it tends to take a little longer.
It
wasn’t until I took a trip by myself that I realized that, yes, I am getting
old. After all, when you travel with
children, they become a really good cover-up for your own decline. “I wouldn’t have stopped, honey, except the
children needed to.” Right. Blame it on the children. Of course, it is rather embarrassing to say,
“I’m getting old, honey. The body just
isn’t what it used to be!”
When
I was a boy, I was in awe at how many different medicines my grandmother, who
was then in her 80s, would carry around in her purse. My father and I used to joke about how she was a walking
pharmacy. At the rate I am going, I
will be doing pretty darned good to only need a purseful of drugs. It seems that more and more lately I seek
out stashes of Advil and other such pain killing medications to help combat the
aches and pains that seem to have taken up permanent residence in my body. It used to be that when I traveled I would
ask where the nearest restaurant was; now I ask where the nearest drugstore
is. After all, who can think about food
when your back hurts?
There’s
a reason that most of the Olympic athletes are in their late teens or early
twenties. They don’t have to worry
about being rubbed down with Ben-Gay to get out of bed in the morning because
their joints hurt.
In
my case, I am limited by the fact that I no longer have the ability to
run. Trot, maybe, but not run. I can now easily be outrun by just about
anybody who is under the age of fifty.
I’m to the point that I’m afraid to even try, because my knee has told
me not to. And, as much as I hate to
admit it, my knee is the boss. And so
is my colon, my back, my bladder, and the rest of my major body parts. My brain?
Well, let’s just say that it’s been overthrown in a biological coup
d’etat.
I have decided that, then, my opportunity to
be an Olympic medallist or world class athlete has passed. It’s time to pass on the torch to the next
generation. That is, as soon as I find
some Tylenol so that I can lift it.