š¶ "When I'm Sixty-Four..." š¶
Iām taking a break from politics today. Instead, Iāll mention that next month I will be 64 years old.
Yikes.
Something about a Beatles song comes to mind.

Not me, but I'm feeling like this a lot lately...
Yes, I will be 64. But it doesnāt bother me a bit. āCause, like they say, age is only a number. A couple of mere digits. Hardly worth mentioning. Yes siree. You betcha. Just a number.
One hell of a big God damn number with all sorts of annoying sixes and fours involved which could jolly well bugger off someplace anytime they likedā¦
But only a number.
*
Oh, and I have a couple of ways of dealing with birthdays. For instance, I resolutely refer to myself as āmiddle aged.ā That sounds so young and vibrant. Like 40, but with twice the rich, creamy goodness.
Sorta like Double Stuffed Oreos with a shorter shelf-life.
*
āCourse, to be middle aged at 64 Iād have to live to be 128.
But, Iām not going to think about that.
At least not while anyoneās watching.

In my more youthful and vigorous days. I'm on the right.
Besides, Iām not getting older. Iām just a little more pre-used.
*
And, oh, btw, hereās how I work the question of āOld.ā
āOldā is whatever age we are right now, plus 29. So, for me, right now, āOldā is being 93. In the year 2050, itāll be 122. In 2079, itāll be 151.
And so until the heat death of the universe when we go drizzling down the drain with a big sucking sound into the great black hole of Sagittarius A* and I intend to be collecting social security right up to the end, so all you tax-cutting, Atlas Shrugging, fiscal responsibility types can go suck an egg. You betcha.
*
Actually, Iāve got no reason to complain. My health is good. My marriage is sound. Martha hasnāt yet attempted to poison me. Though, God knows why. And I havenāt yet *completely* alienated my son, daughter-in-law, and, adorable granddaughter. So allās right with the worldā¦
Exceptā¦
Damn it.
How did I get to be 64 without even once being asked to play the lead in a James Bond movie?
Ah well, I guess itās true what they say. You *can* be just too good looking to succeed.

Attention Film Producers: I'm still available for casting.
Like I say, I have no reason to complain. Which doesnāt stop me. Or you either. So you can just stop being so smug about it.
*
Besides, Iāve begun to notice that some of the things my parents used to kvetch about are now starting to show up in ā¦erā¦my kvetch-field as well.
Like ā¦
My back goes out more often than I do.
Iām on a first name basis with a cardiologist.
My arches are falling faster than Rudy Giulianiās approval rating.
Peeing is the one and only reason I might, possibly, be up after midnight.
My hair is thinner than a wet Kleenex in Cedar Fever Season.
Except in my ears. There, I got more fur than a mink farm on steroids.
I spend a lot of time trying to explain why a Dad Bod is secretly sexy.
Andā¦well, just in generalā¦Iāve got several other little things that are either failing to function, smelling bad, or puffing out like a Sopaipilla in a deep fat frier.
Thank you so farping much, Father Time and Mother Nature.

We shall never speak of this again...
Naturally, there are other things I could also mention, but I wonāt ācause theyāre really, Really, REALLY embarrassing.
And besidesā¦
For stuff like that, English fails you. You have to use something like Yiddish or Italian. You know. A language that appreciates a really good kvetch.
Or, to put it another way, Sto a pezzi yāall.
*
Until next timeā¦
Onward and Upward.
~mjt