What a relief! For the past 15 years I’ve depended on rationalizations, glitzy generalities, catchy phrases and outright denial to avoid the sting of having to consider myself “old.” Well thankfully I’m finished with all those awkward diversions and petty vanities. No more tiptoeing around this distasteful subject. Last week I turned 65 and became a proud member of Medicare. This is truly the end of the line, no more confusion. When you hear the word Medicare what picture pops into your mind? Is it the image of a doddering blue-haired grandma slowly shuffling across the street with the aid of a cane? You know it is.
If you are on Medicare you are OLD! The undeniable truth is–I AM OLD! I can’t honestly report that I’ve completely come to grips with this brutal fact, but as the saying goes–it is what it is.
As I see it, one of my top options is to simply begin lying about my age. Almost everybody lies about their age; especially women. The tough part about this alternative is remembering the lie and adjusting all future conversations regarding my life. I will be forced to quickly do the math anytime my age is an issue. “When did you graduate from high school Pete? Uh, uh, 1971, uh I think.” Or, “When did you get out of the Army Pete? Um, 1972 or 1973 I believe. Wow, you were seventeen when you got out of the Army, how is that possible dude? It’s not dude, I’m lying to you about my age because I’m OLD!” I’d have to memorize an entire new timeline of my life. I don’t believe I can cope with the pressure of being deceitful about my age for the remainder of my days, so forever fudging is out.
How about cosmetic surgery? Almost everybody gets plastic surgery; especially women. A slight nip here and a tiny tuck there. That way I won’t have to fib about my age since I’ll appear younger, thus the subject will never arise. Heck, Kim Novak looked pretty darn good at the Academy Awards. Miss Novak turned 80 in February and she’s had more repairs done on her than the 405.
Also, Mickey Rourke’s and Michael Jackson’s facial reconstructions appeared to do the trick for them. They looked more spry and youthful surgery after surgery after surgery. However, there looms two gigantic problems with this course of action– the hefty cost of these procedures and where do I stop nipping and tucking? Do I begin with my eyes then cut my way down to the nose, cheeks, chin, stomach and concluding with my “love handles” being sucked dry? Do they make Botox in a pill? Crap, there’s no easy way out, is there?
I believe there’s only one grim, nauseating avenue remaining–boldly facing reality. I presume that’s exactly what most welladjusted “normal” old fogies do–go about their daily lives stoically accepting the irrefutable consequences of gravity and the deleterious effects of the aging process. As Marlon Brando barked to a blubbering Johnny Fontane in “The Godfather,” “You can act like a man!” I suppose I’ll attempt to age with grace and poise.
When I began writing this piece I believed it might prove cathartic. Man, was I wrong! I feel worse than ever. I’ll leave you with one final burning question. Should I lie about my age when I first meet my plastic surgeon?
Pete Whalon, author of “The Siagon Zoo” has called Southern California home since age five.
