Signs of Aging
When I turned forty-five, I noticed a single gray hair on my scalp—literally the morning of—what a way to approach the back nine. Shortly after, that confederate strand convinced its buddy to follow suit, and before I knew it, those sons of bitches got two others to join the gang. I had what an economics professor in college referred to as “mass civil disobedience” on my noggin. Okay, so “mass” may be too strong a word, but you get the point. They were unionizing, and I was about to call in the Pinkertons, who, in this case, was a box of Just For Men.
If that wasn’t enough, I’ve also been battling a receding hairline since my days at the University of Georgia. I still have a full head of hair, which, by my standards, is quite handsome, but there’s no denying I’m aging. It’s odd to see the physical manifestation of age staring back at you in the mirror, even if it’s only a few gray hairs.
But, if I’m being honest, there are a few other signs of aging, and I’m not talking about my daily nap, the fact that I need readers (especially in dimly lit restaurants—TURN ON THE DAMN LIGHTS!), or the pretzel-like stretches I use to relieve my lower back pain. All of those ailments crept up on me, whereas the gray hair happened overnight.
I’ll give you an example of my slow decline into old age—I’ve taken to watching Newhart. Yeah, the same program my parents watched when I was in elementary school in the ’80s. The theme song immediately transports me back to my childhood home, where the seventeen-inch television with rabbit ears only had a few channels, and you had to change them by turning a plastic knob.
I find Bob Newhart to be hilarious. I love getting lost in Dick and Joanna’s life as innkeepers in Vermont. The humor is clean, the content is innocent, and it’s cleverly written. I challenge you to find a single show these days with those three characteristics.
When I’m not watching Newhart, I get lost in documentaries—and I mean “real” documentaries. If they’re not hours long, I’d just as soon skip ’em. Now, I’ve always enjoyed documentaries; old age isn’t to blame. But when they come to the exclusion of everything else, I can’t help but wonder: is this what getting old is all about—devoting a month’s worth of evenings to watching black-and-white footage?
These are the last three I’ve watched, and I highly recommend all of them:
Baseball by Ken Burns. 18 ½ hours. 1994.
New York by Ric Burns. 17 ½ hours. 1999.
Civilisation by Kenneth Clark. 11 hours. 1969.
I don’t know what Mama Burns was feeding her boys, but damned if it didn’t produce artists of the highest caliber.
Back to aging. I know I’m not old. All I have to do is say something to that effect around anyone in their 60s or 70s, and I’m reminded just how young I am. But the same goes when I hear a guy in his 30s yap about his age. The difference is I’m receiving letters from the AARP, and junior isn’t (yet).
