George Clooney just turned 50. I hate him. He still looks like, well, himself. Me and my old friends, not so much. Except mebbe in our minds.
That was recently brought home to a tall, still-studly buddy of mine. He was at a social function when a pretty high school girl offered him her chair so he could sit down. Sad? It was way worse than sad. He initially thought she was flirting with him.
My “senior awakening” was internet related. I heard that there WAS an internet. Kidding. But I really was stunned when I had to click TWICE on drop-down menus to get to 1956, the year I was born and when gravity was invented.
Being mid-50s means my new car will probably outlast me. I will soon qualify for Denny’s Senior menu. And when I look in the mirror, I see … George Clooney… Except he now looks just like my grandpa.
I didn’t expect my 50’s to be an age of exploration – exploring the room I just left for clues … what exactly did I just forget to remember. Car keys? Fire extinguisher? No. 1 son?
Being in my mid-50s means my body and brain are changing. I now like Advil way better than M&Ms. Putting milk in my innards is like dropping a Mentos into a Diet Coke. And my memory loss mantra is “Denny Crane, Mad Cow.”
But lately, what has annoyed me most is not knowing who is dead and who isn’t.
Sure, I know which family members are breathing and which have karked it. Mainly. But when I’m thinking about a major sports star or actor from my youth, I never really know whether they still have a pulse. Usually, if I think they are are dead, they ain’t, and vice-versa.
I was at the grocery store and learned that Michael Douglas has throat cancer. That’s sad, but way better than being dead, which is what I thought he was. In fact, his DAD is still alive. Kirk is now 93.
Wonder if he says “I am Spartacus. Now where are my chariot keys?” Or just, “Denny Crane. Mad Cow.”