MAY 27, 2021 – After yesterday’s shootings, I’d planned to pontificate about gun control in America. But that’s a story of inertia, so I decided to write about something far more dynamic: aging in America.
On an early biz call, an acquaintance asked. “How’s it goin’?”
“To be honest,” I said, “[sciatica flare-up].”
To which the caller said, “I feel your pain! After [this, that, and the other], I did two things.”
I was all ears.
“First, I got a Tricker-Tracker Machine,” he said. Then I started a PT stretching exercise.” (I’m making up “Tricker-Tracker,” but it sounded something similar.) “I do the Tricker-Tracker every other day,” he continued cheerily, “and the exercise every day. Haven’t had a problem in two years!” He then described The Stretch.
I tried it after the call. Relief finally, after nearly two weeks of unalleviated pain. With fingers crossed, I’m trusting that I won’t need a “Tricker-Tracker.” Admittedly, though, I might soon be Googling, “remedies for severe pain from crossed digits”—and ducking the onslaught of online advertising. And I didn’t cancel this morning’s “back-to-back” appointments—with a chiropractor, then with a physical therapist.
The foregoing addresses my pressing physical issues.
As the day progressed, I worried anew. “What else can an aging white guy fret about?” my synapses said. But of course: SYNAPSES!
I gave myself a pop quiz—old phone numbers; rarely-used passwords; names of random people I’ve encountered over the past month. I passed with flying colors, though admittedly, the questions were skewed in my favor.
Then came a setback: where on earth had I put my sunglasses? I searched, turning the venture into a supplemental test of short-term memory, as in “What was my path after entering the house 10 minutes ago?” I looked unsuccessfully until I remembered: my 10-minute walk inside the house had included a bathroom. And sure enough, there is where I found my sunglasses.
More precisely, in the bathroom mirror is where I found them—having forgotten that I’d raised them above my forehead.
None of the above, however, matched the story of another caller yesterday—a lawyer I’ve known for decades. He told of two acquaintances of ours, one our age, who was giving a ride to one considerably older. The older guy, a sharp knife in his day, is less so today. On their way to the visitation of yet another old lawyer, the formerly sharp knife revealed that he thought they were driving to the dead man’s retirement party. For the occasion he’d purchased a card and thought he’d amuse his younger friend and escort by reading the inscription: “Don – I hope you enjoy your retirement as much as I’m enjoying mine.”
The younger lawyer later learned that despite his persuasion skills, the card had found its way into the “condolences” basket.
I hope people my junior will be as amused when my mental decline morphs into . . . unintended humor. I’m okay with being a pain in the butt so long as I don’t have pain in the butt—and can remember your name.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
