Tell Us Again About How You Had to Change the TV Channel by Hand, Grandma!

I got an e-mail this week from an old friend bemoaning the gradually-increasing strength of his “forgeterrer” and the fact that he believes he may have broken his “rememberer”.

As someone who has repeatedly voted against the aging process – and I think the record will bear me out on this – I must say that this has not been my experience. My rememberer is working just fine, thank you; and except for the occasional confusing foray from one room to another only to find myself standing in front of an open refrigerator for no discernible reason, I remain in full control of all of my faculties.

Oh, it's all well and good until you find your underwear in the freezer and wonder to yourself, now where did I put that pound of hamburger?

Oh, come on. Play along, and let’s pretend that we’re not all getting older!

I have an acquaintance who, according to his friends, has not changed one bit since graduating from college. Still the partying frat boy.

This is not as charming as you’d think.

Just to get under his skin a bit, I mentioned the concept of “middle age” to him. Heartily offended, he said that he was absolutely not middle-aged.

“You’re 38,” I said, “Just how long are you planning on living?”

So maybe 38 is not as middle-aged as, say, 45 or 50, but one is certainly moving towards checking a different box in the demographic information sheets at this point. And apart from the ability to lose weight easier in one’s younger days, what’s the big deal? Would you ever go back to the hormonal, hyper days of your youth? Not in a million years. I was an impetuous, bewildered nutcase in my 20s (and 30s and…). I barely made it through the first time and that was before cell phones, FaceBook, and rampant tattoos. Can you imagine what kind of horrors I escaped just by not having those things available?

I know me! If tattoing had been acceptable in my youth, I would have had a Chinese symbol tattooed on my backside only to discover years later that it meant "gullible" or, to quote George Carlin, "Beef with Broccoli".

It’s just now, comfortably, almost comatosely in my 40s, that things are really starting to click for me. And I’m not just talking about my knees and neck here. I mean that things are beginning to make sense. What a relief! I guess in the long run that I’d rather have it this way – being confused in the beginning and then gaining clarity as I go along – than the other way around…

Wait a minute. What was I just going on about? Something about clarity or something.

Oh, well. Whatever it was, I’m sure I’ll remember eventually. In the meantime, I’m going to step into the kitchen for a bit, just to check out what’s in the fridge.

Let me know if I can get you anything.