So I have a rather large birthday ahead.
I will become a septuagenarian.
A Gay septuagenarian.
Damn and Double Damn. Many of my friends are in the same age bracket.
Nothing I can do about it. Seventy may be a very pleasant place to be in this game of life we all play.
I tell the Mister that I have another 13 good years left. 13 times to put up the Christmas Tree.
13 more trips to Hawaii, 13 more summers.
It's a short ride.
Only time will tell how short.
I still have most of my hair.
I can jauntily climb out of bed- most mornings.
I can walk many kilometres in a stretch.
I ride my bile. Okay, it is an ebike but still I do a lot of the pedaling myself.
I don't take my shirt off in public anymore which results in the best "farmer's tan" I've ever seen on a septuagenarian.
My dimming eyesight requires glasses for not just reading but distance and I may have glaucoma developing in my left eye. That will be confirmed or denied in the next month.
Not a happy thought.
I can still pee unassisted and I am not yet wearing those under panties in a box I pass by every time I shop at WalMart. Actually, the handsome "Daddy" on the box's cover seems quite proud to be wearing the fashionable diapers. I hope I feel that proud when I slap on a pair.
You've all heard it before- we're not here for a long time. Just a short time.
We had better make the best of it.
The Angel of Death could come calling at any moment! I hope he's handsome!
I'm not being morbid here and I'm not dwelling on the end of days for me- although The Mister would tell you a different story. I am just trying to get my head around the swiftness that brought me from a little kid to an "old man".
Me at about 23 years of age with long hair- ya damn hippy!
That's my brand, spanking new Volkswagen Beetle in Clementine Orange. I loved her.
Then yesterday to drive home the point that I have a relatively short time left on earth, the Royal Bank of Canada sends me a letter. The letter says due to the fact that I am turning 70, they will not be able to cover my on demand account with life insurance at month's end after my birthday.
How nice of them.
Banked with them for decades.
Paid their stupid fees and now they don't want to take a chance on me any longer. I am lucky there's a nil balance on the account but still- what the fuck?
I am not just a liability, I am an old fucker who's a liability.
I mean they didn't even wish me a happy birthday.
"Sincerely" the form letter was signed.
Not "Sincerely and Happy Birthday" just "Sincerely".
There was a postscript:
"If the information that we have about your birth date is incorrect, please call us as soon as possible you old fart."
Okay, I added the old fart but really couldn't they have said- "Best Wishes on the occasion of your 70th- you old fart"?
It's not all been black and dreary news however.
I've had some happy septuagenarian news this week.
I was at the dentist.
Dr. Tom tells me I have 31 of my 32 teeth still in my head.
"That's remarkable"- he says, "The missing tooth is a wisdom tooth and you didn't need that one anyway."
Yes indeedy do, I still have three wisdom's and I'm thinking that's why I'm so damn intelligent at this stage of life.
Well, what other explanation is there it?
