The thought of getting older is starting to raise havoc with me.
I detest the thought of giving in to age, but there are all sorts of grim reminders.
I watched my 6-year-old granddaughter display her wizardry at a computer station the other day. She was amazed to think I lived in a generation where there were no computers or iPods — that the biggest moment in my childhood was the neighborhood yo-yo contest.
"We used to amuse ourselves with chestnut matches," I told her. "As the chestnuts fell off the trees, we'd drill holes in them, knot some string on one end, and try to break the other guy's chestnut."
She gave me a look of pity.
I dread the arrival of another year and the celebration of my next birthday — my 69th.
The symptoms of age are manifesting themselves in greater numbers.
The worst player on the racquetball court wants to play me for money — with a 10-point spot, no less. The old legs don't move quite as swiftly anymore and very often my stomach gets in the way of a good kill shot.
The kids accuse me of not understanding what they're talking about. They're right. I don't. I don't belong to the same scientific or physical world as they do.
Nobody speaks loud enough for me to hear anymore. And when they do, they shout, thinking I need a hearing aid.
It's been 10 years since I realized I was past my prime in basketball. The jocks snickered when I asked to join them in a game, paying no heed to my foul-shooting ability. They bucked up sides and I got picked last. It was middle school all over again.
The workout took its toll. I paid for it days later. A game of chess would have been more my speed.
The kids are treating me with reverence, rather than revenge. I walked into my living room only to see my favorite easy chair occupied by someone younger. All of a sudden, he jumped up as though shot from a cannon and said, "Here, take this chair," as if I were too old to stand.
I go to weddings, see kids shaking up a storm, and can't wait until the DJ plays a waltz so I can join the crowd.
I'm not asking for sympathy but, well, perhaps a teeny bit might help.
I recall reading somewhere that age is only a matter of record. The real test is how you feel. I've heard it said that an old crocodile is still a menace and an old nightingale can still chirp a merry tune.
A friend turned 70 this year and walked around wearing a Superman T-shirt at his party. He felt honored being the same age as the inimitable man of steel.
But then, he looked that way at 50 and is still the type to run marathons and enter bicycle races. He tells me he stays young by living honestly, eating slowly, sleeping sufficiently and worshipping faithfully.
"It's all in God's hands but you can help by being true to yourself," he tells me.
Hey, who wants to be young anyway? Anyone born in the last 50 years can be young. I'd rather be called experienced or seasoned — anything but old. In the meantime, I'll continue to enjoy my years ahead and take life one day at a time.
There's one benefit to reaching an advanced age that I am growing to appreciate. I don't care where my better half goes, just as long as I don't have to tag along, especially to a shopping mall.
You see, it takes me longer to rest than to get tired, proving one important theory: By the time a man is wise enough to watch his step, he's too old to go anywhere.
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Tom Vartabedian writes this weekly column for The Haverhill Gazette.
